


Heartstrings

by moonmayhem



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Anxiety, Bittersweet, Depression, Dissociation, F/M, Fate, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Multi, Red String of Fate, References to Depression, Self-Hatred, Soulmates, Suggestive Themes, picking at wounds (metaphorical)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28253505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonmayhem/pseuds/moonmayhem
Summary: A collection of experiences from relationships created by the (many) strings of fate.
Relationships: Bokuto Koutarou/Reader, Oikawa Tooru/Reader, Sawamura Daichi/Reader, Terushima Yuuji/Reader, Ushijima Wakatoshi/Reader
Comments: 60
Kudos: 133





	1. Prologue

Perhaps being cynical about love is much too melodramatic for someone who hasn’t seen enough of the world yet to have a proper opinion. Believing in love is easy; you see it every day in the eyes of the children walking their animals around the café, in the woman giving flowers to her mother at the corner of the chocolate shop, and the man grinning funnily down at his phone as he crosses the street.

Love is everywhere, and it appears in many forms, but romantic love is not something to be fond of when it forces one to be a pawn in its game.

Everyone has a red string that hangs in the middle of their chest. It eventually leads to a fated partner, a person you are supposed to spend the rest of your life with that fits and understands you perfectly. The idea of it, the _chase_ , excites even the most reserved individual for a future filled with adoration and comfortable happiness. No one is able to see anyone else’s string; the unattached, the attached, the broken, and the mended—none are visible to anyone other than their carrier.

Unless, however, the gift of sight was bestowed upon them as it was you.

For decades, The Fates have given the first-born children in your family the ability to see not only the red string, but other less prominent strings that most of the population don’t have a clue about. Of course, the blessing of having this ‘gift of sight’ comes at a cost. With the gift, The Fates revoke the natural birthright of a red string. Instead, the first-born’s duty is to help others grow and better themselves for their future, and thus their fated partner.

The Fates force the ‘gifted’ to find and give happiness to others. They are made to cultivate a person's greatest assets and nurture the lesser ones, only to set them free for another to reap the benefits of the confidence and poise they previously sowed.

_You_ are forced to better a person for another, whether or not you have fallen in love with them.

The people at the other end of your strings are never yours to keep.


	2. Oikawa Tooru

The first time one of your strings connects, you’re in your second year of high school and you try to ignore it.

Its color is a brilliant royal purple, and you take a minute to remember exactly what your father explained to you about the different colors.

 _“Purple, my dear, gives you the leading role of a catalyst.” _ You remember blinking you at him owlishly, not quite understanding.  _“You are the reason for change, the reason your partner will evolve and become someone better than when you first met.”_

_ “I get to help them?” _

_ “Yes, sweetheart, you get to help them.” _

Being excited as a child doesn’t correlate well into teenage years, and suddenly the idea of helping a person change seems utterly belittling. The things you imagine happening could humiliate you and nearly devastate your own dignity and self-esteem, so you decide to stay away and avoid the other end of your string at all costs.

The only problem with that is the Fates continues to make the two of you run into one another. For example: homeroom ends up being you sitting in the back of the class next to a large window with him inconveniently sitting right next to you. Then, one of his fans in their love stricken stupor, accidentally bumps you in the hallway as you try to walk by the yelling and you’re pushed into him. One of the worst encounters is that he snatched the last milk bread right in front of you at lunch and tried to charm his way out of it. Last, and most recently, you eventually stumbled into the gym when he’s practicing with his teammates.

At some point, the oblivious boy actually notices the pattern of you suddenly showing up constantly in his life, accidentally or not. When you have business in the gym, he will approach and talk you up, but it’s never for long because his teammate looks like he’ll toss a volleyball to the back of his head if he doesn’t pay attention to practice—he’s done it before.

_“Come here often?”_ He flirts, trying to charm you out of the grimace that holds your facial features hostage.  
  
Then a loud  _thunk_ to the brunette, some whining, and a lot of yelling to keep focus. 

He doesn’t leave you alone like you had been trying and failing to do with him. He passes notes in class, trying to make you laugh. He grabs onto your shoulders, directing you like a moving vehicle through the hallways when his fangirls bump into you. And he grabs two milk breads at lunch, just in case you’re unable to get one yourself. It takes maybe two or three weeks for the disgusting feeling in your heart to spread to your fingertips and toes, warmth cascading like a waterfall over your limbs every time you see him. Every time he smiles at you and jogs over. Every time you study with him and his friend. Every single time you touch his skin.

_Love_. You fall stupidly in love with him and it feels like a curse.

* * *

When he talks about volleyball, his brown eyes shine as bright and as big as the full moon on a clear Tuesday night. The love for the game outshines anything else in his life, that much you notice, but at this point in your friendship you are more than okay with that. The purple string dangles freely between the two of you, waiting for you to fulfil your duty to it and to him. 

One day, there is a sharp tug in the middle of your chest like it is coaxing you to act, to move things along before time runs out, and you know then that you either have to confess or remain his friend and hope that it was enough to perform your duties. If you didn’t, the string will stay connected even after you say your farewells, and then there would be a dull ache each time you look down at it.

So, for lack of better judgment, you confess to him. He is shocked, but you tell him that loving him isn’t the only reason for the confession. And so, with you knowing the sport is his passion and the only thing at the forefront of his mind, you become a beautiful, special bonus.

The color purple means lots of things—transformation, enlightenment, cruelty, temperance, etcetera. The relationship you have with the person on the other end of the color can represent any or all of them, and with your high school love, each of the meanings finds their own place in the relationship.

Oikawa Tooru is a beautiful boy with incredible ambition and a sharp tongue, but he is beyond perfect. Often, the smiles and flirtatious remarks he dishes out are insincere. Opponents assume he is full of himself because of his smugness and frivolousness, but he is incredibly cunning and uses his skill to calculate the strengths and weaknesses of everyone on the court.

Behind the cocky facade is someone with an inferiority complex that fuels a bubbling volcano-like anger to those more naturally skilled. Sometimes he will come to you; gritted teeth and white-knuckled fists, and won’t say a word. It is at those times he is silently asking to be held without questions or reasons as to what set him off. But you can always tell that it stems from his own harmful thoughts of being “less than.” It isn’t until the two of you started dating that his worst flaws showed. 

More than once he had left you waiting outside a movie theater, checking your phone for any sort of message or phone call from him, explaining why he was late for your date. Unfortunately, today was a busy day where people walk by giving pitiful glances as they pass you for the second time on the street. Their glances settle an acid-like discomfort in your stomach, because even if this wasn’t the first time,  of course you stayed.

An hour passes.

Text:  _Did you sleep in?_

Then, two.

Text:  _Tooru, are you coming?_

Three, and you leave with a heavy sigh and aching feet.

Eventually, later into the afternoon when you’ve passed the time at home perusing the Internet, your phone lights up with a message showing that he’s outside your front door. Begrudgingly, you pad outside and shut the door firmly behind you so that your parents don’t hear what is sure to be an argument. They, of course, are aware of what Oikawa is to you and the string attached to him—they know of the proper work and care you, a mere high school student, must put into the relationship to make things work.

_“We’re incredibly proud of you,”_ they said. And it echoes through your mind each time he makes you want to cry. 

When you ask for an explanation, he says that he was busy practicing his serves and bouncing plays off of Iwaizumi.

You scoff, “Another excuse, Oikawa.”

“Come on,” he groans like he’s being put out. “You knew at the very start of our relationship that volleyball was it for me.”

Indignation is dripping off of him; with his arms crossed, an eyebrow raised, and an unimpressed glint in his eye. He looks as if an explanation isn’t worth his time—that  _you_ aren’t worth his time.

“Tooru, I understand that it’s important to you, but it isn’t an excuse not to text me. If you wanted to practice, you could have asked to move the date to another day. This is the  _fifth_ time!”

A bit of him snaps then, and Tooru’s arms fly out to his sides as he glares at you with a sneer. “If you don’t like it, then we shouldn’t be dating. _You_ said you understood my ambitions! You  _told_ me you understood my desire to rise above the rest! If I waste my time going on dates with you, I’ll fall behind those stupid geniuses!”

It is at that moment that the puzzle pieces slot themselves together and you finally figure out what you must mend within him. It is the fearful insecurity that holds him back, the self-doubt in his own abilities that trickle down into the crevices of other avenues in this life. The parts of him that downshift his attitude on the defensive, the parts of him that push others farther and farther away until they’re just out of reach.

Other than his teammates, who has ever really seen him? Or has heard his cry for help? Other than them, who has ever stayed?

“Listen to me, Oikawa Tooru. I’m not going  anywhere , do you understand?” His furrowed brow softens slightly at your words. “But I require open communication when it comes to your practicing habits. I’ll come with lunch or snacks and watch you practice if need be, but I will  _not_ have  _my_ time wasted waiting around for you in front of any building ever again. It’s humiliating.”

Tooru clears his throat as his stiff posture deflates. “You’re not dumping me?”

“Dummy,” You cross your arms and look away. “No, I like you too much.”

He stands there flexing his hands like he doesn’t know what to do or say next. You wait, like you have been, until he slowly approaches you and holds you tightly to him.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

 _ It’s a start _ , you think, and like all high school sweethearts, you tell him you will be there for him as loudly or as silently as he desires. You will support him until his ambitions take him elsewhere; somewhere you can not follow.

* * *

It is a rare Monday night where you have him all to yourself, especially with graduation rapidly approaching. Usually, he is off practicing or messing around with the other third years; something that makes you grin when you think of them goofing off together. In bed with a pillow folded and tucked under your head, you watch as he sits on the floor of your room and organizes the random postcards you collected over the years. 

The delicate way his dark brown hair sweeps outward on both sides of his face, longing for fingers to be buried in the strands, lures you in to do just that. He crawls forward when your outstretched arm catches his view; he knows what the gesture means and leans his head back on your mattress to be pampered by you.

“I love it when you do this,” he says as your fingernails scratch at his scalp.

“And I love doing it.”

Tooru’s eyes are closed and the thin upturn of his lips gently fades as the minutes pass. Absently, his hand flexes against his right thigh, like he is thinking about the injury sustained. You lightly smooth your thumbs over his closed eyelids and down to his temples.

“What are you thinking about, Tooru?”

He hums, a smile returning to his face, and his hand falls to his side. It’s obvious he is trying to play off his minute of wandering thoughts. If it means he can stay calm and centered in this moment with you, he will pretend like they weren’t happening.

“Nothing, Y/n, I’m just enjoying this.”

You don’t push him; you don’t try to, and maybe that’s why he is always so comfortable. But it is probably also why you can never truly figure out the thoughts that run through his head.

“Alright.”

His fingers play with the hem of his shirt, and as your own returns to his locks you wonder if he had wanted you to pry.

“So,” he sighs. “Can you tell me about your strings?”

This isn’t the first time he’s inquired about them, but he’s never asked for details. “What would you like to know?”

Looking up at you, he asks, “Can you really not see a red one?”

You shake your head. “Can you see yours?” He nods. “I can see all of my strings, but other than the purple one connecting us, the rest are grey.”

_“A rainbow!” _ Your mom giggled when she helped explain the changing of colors.  _“Sometimes a few of the strings will stay connected if the Fates allow, and they’ll look like a spectrum of light extending beautifully out of you.”_

Tooru chuckles, “And you still confessed to me, Y/n!”

“Just because our string isn’t red, doesn’t mean my feelings are any less real.” With eyes a little too wide, he watches the way your expression falls as you speak. “I told you what a purple string could mean and that I would be happy to help you become who you wanted to be. I love you, after all.”

There is a slow blink from him and he pulls the hand in his hair to his lips, then mutters gratitude into your skin that has the shape of an apology.

You wonder if he knows that he’s never said it back.

_Temperance_.

* * *

In your third year, the Spring Inter-high Qualifying tournaments are in full swing. As Oikawa’s girlfriend, it’s difficult being associated with him  _normally_ , but it’s even more so when you wear his jersey to a game. It is the only way you’re able to support him publicly without feeling like an overwhelming nuisance. The fan girls, though well-meaning, are loud and screeching during all plays that involve Oikawa.

Earlier on in the relationship, having realized before how much of a flirt he was, you tried your best to remind yourself that his smirk and enchanting eyes that wandered from girl to girl mean nothing. You told him before that it made you uncomfortable but he shrugged his shoulders and said, _“_ _ this is how I am, take it or leave it. _ _”_ Of course, the discussion was after a lousy encounter with one Kageyama, but it stung.

Despite the slight disagreement, Oikawa had come around with some flowers as an apology and a promise to be better. He did his best to minimize the time spent lavishing in the praise and adoration of the girls in order to make you  and himself feel better. With this, you recognized a subtle, yet significant shift in his confidence.

Now, at his games, you do your best to stand out, even though the fan girls are roaring exclamation marks that surround you. In the sea of spectators, wearing the number one jersey with his name splashed on the back, you smile proudly when he winks at you from the court.

It isn’t until the semi-finals that the team’s dreams to go to nationals are dashed away in the last set. You watch their squared off shoulders and angrily disappointed faces move forward toward the stands to take their bow. Tooru catches your eye, but there is no emotion other than fierce, solid determination.

A shiver runs down your spine as the beginnings of an earthquake tremors inside of your carefully crafted relationship. The purple string that always looked so sturdy was nowhere near strong enough to keep the two of you together. Its edges had frayed from the very start, and you begin to see the stress in its tearing threads.

* * *

Back at the school, you wait for Tooru to get off the bus. Earlier that day, the two of you had made plans to go to the station together and then head home. Iwa tags along and looks as dejected as he had on the court, so you reach out to ruffle his hair, hoping to get a tiny grin out of him. It takes a bit of badgering and some friendly poking, but a smile is finally earned.

When that is accomplished, you outstretch the same hand to Tooru and patiently wait for him to grab hold. His face twists into something nasty and before you can retract your hand, he smacks it away.

“I don’t need your pity.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes widen. It shocks both of you, but you are not unaware of where the outburst has come from. The two of you know all too well how he’s feeling right now.

“I’m not pitying you, Tooru.”

“The hell you are! We didn’t win nationals because I wasn’t a good enough captain, you feel  _sorry_ for me. I saw it when you looked at me in the stands.”

“What you saw were my own emotions. You all worked so hard to get where you were and I was sad to see it end, but you all did so well—,”

“Stop!” He yells. “You’re only saying that shit because you have to! You don’t actually love me; you’re forced to offer yourself up as a toy to people just because your strings attach to them!”

_Cruelty_.

Iwa nearly steps in to hit Oikawa on the back of the head for his comment, but you stop him. Tooru’s words sting, but being with him for a year has thickened your skin.

“That was too far, idiot.” Iwa states, causing Oikawa to flinch.

You see the beginnings of tears flooding his vision and instead of returning his words with malice; you reach your hand out to him once more. As he looks at you, his perceptive eyes can probably see the silent pleading behind them before he glances down at your open palm and hesitantly folds it around his. You tug him forward and place his hand and yours inside your sweater pocket, grasping tightly to the loose threads tying the both of you together.

“I believe in you, you know?”

“What?” He looks at you with half-lidded wet eyes and glistening eyelashes.

“Have I ever pitied you? Truly?”

He shakes his head, “No.”

“Determination and the desire to ascend far beyond your imagination will take you far, Tooru. You just have to stop comparing yourself to others all the time.”

Oikawa scoffs. “They’re geniuses, how the hell am I to—,”

“Just because your kouhai and Ushijima are ‘geniuses’ at volleyball, does not mean they’re unbeatable. They are only as good as the effort they put towards the sport.” With a soft smile and grip his hand tighter. “And you are the most hard-working person I know in volleyball.”

“I keep taking everything out on you. I’m sorry, Y/n…”

You shrug, “The string brought me to you, but it does nothing to influence how I really feel, and you know I love you.”

At your words, a light brightens inside of his eyes and something in the air tells you that this relationship may end sooner than you wish.

“Okay, you two, let’s head home I’m tired!”

Oikawa turns away from you only to wrap his free arm around Iwaizumi’s neck, bantering with him as if his outburst hadn’t just occurred.

* * *

Spring brings a breeze that tangles and dances with the cherry blossoms. Graduation had been the day before and today you are walking home from lunch with both Iwa and Tooru on either side of you, your fingers intertwined with the brunettes.

Although you all are laughing and making jokes together, there is an ominous heaviness that lurks in the background waiting to drape itself entirely over you.

It isn’t until Iwaizumi says he wants to stop inside of a tiny shop that Oikawa’s grip tightens in yours and he stops you from following his best friend in. It is then that you feel the heaviness settle on your shoulders like a blanket. You feel sick, but will yourself not to cry. This is the moment that would inevitably come, the moment that he would let go of your hand for bigger and better things. You had always been prepared.

“I’ve decided what I want to do.”

You tilt your head with a smile. “Hm? And what is that?”

Tooru is looking far off into the distance. Past the falling petals and couples taking pictures in the nearby park.

“I’ll be leaving Japan.”

The surprise is evident on your face. “Where will you go?”

Argentina sounds foreign on his lips and even more so to your ears. It’s when his fingers slip out of yours that the ringing in your head starts.

It is the slight  _pity_ in his eyes, the apology on his tongue, and the fact that all of it is crafted especially for you that softens the blow ever so slightly. You put your hand up to stop his explanation; he didn’t need to do that with you. He should know that.

With a sad smile on your face, you tell him you love him. “I knew this day would come. You’ve always had my support, Tooru, and you always will.”

There is the start of tears in his eyes as he bites his lip and turns away. Iwaizumi comes back and his eyes slide between the two of you with a knowing look, but he doesn’t mention a thing.

Instead, he says, “I got what I needed, let’s all head home.”

You tuck your hand inside of your jacket pocket and watch as Oikawa does the same. Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you tell yourself it wasn’t appropriate to cry at this moment and look down to keep the tears at bay. It is then that you notice the purple string laying against your chest and slowly fading away.

 _“Sometimes you’re supposed to learn something from the relationship, too.”_ Your father had said. 

_ “Like what?” _

_ “It all depends on the color and the person, but you’ll know.” _ He smiled,  _“you’ll figure it out.”_

Oikawa Tooru was never fully yours to lose.

_ Enlightenment. _


	3. Sawamura Daichi

Early twenties delivered busy schedules and young adult bills; a new apartment, and food to buy for yourself was hard to handle alone after leaving your childhood home. The long walk from the train station to your home was harrowing on your feet, but one day you found a bit of solace in a man in uniform.

“Sawamura?”

The officer spun on his heels and blinked slowly at you before recognition and a smile blossomed on his face. “L/n?”

There was the sharp familiar pull in the middle of your chest and when you glanced down, a string like melted milk chocolate was pulled taunt between you and Daichi. _Typical_ , you thought, but you had fond memories of the Karasuno Captain, so helping him would hopefully be pleasant. Then, when you blinked again, you noticed his red string was off in a different direction as it had already connected to his soulmate. For a split second your own smile faltered, but quick recovery was a brand new skill in your inventory, and you approached him with shining eyes.

“I haven’t seen you since the Spring Inter-Highs, how’s life as an adult, Mister Police Officer?”

It was difficult not to look at the red string as it moved around him. It almost seemed like the person was near. They _had_ to be.

“Tough,” he chuckled with a bit of embarrassment. “But we’re all doing our best.”

“We?” He fell into step next to you, accompanying you on the journey home. “Are you maybe talking about Sugawara and Azumane?”

He nods, “The rest of them, too. Everyone that was on the team when we were third years, they’re all taking on the world fairly well.”

With a hum, you clasp your hands behind your back and look down at the pavement while you walk. A gentle aura of refuge or safety had always rolled off of Daichi in waves, with or without the uniform he made everyone around him feel secure and heard, and by his side it wrapped you up in a tenderhearted hug.

“I’m glad that I ran into you like this.”

“Me too,” he looked up at the sky and the setting sun. “Do you always walk this way?”

“After work,” you utter with a sigh. “Which is most days.”

“Would you, uh, maybe like to talk more? On a day off, of course! We could grab lunch or coffee, whatever you’re up for.”

“I would really enjoy that.”

With a promise for lunch, Daichi ends up walking you the rest of the way home before giving a bashful wave as he heads back.

* * *

Lunch goes swimmingly. You talk about life post-graduation; how college was nothing like you were told, and your job treats you like a workhorse. Daichi tells you about his underclassmen, and his best friends; speaking animatedly about all of their intriguing life endeavors. He then asks you about Oikawa, wondering if the two of you are still dating and if long distance is hard.

“Ah, we actually broke up right after graduation.” 

Gazing at Daichi’s falling smile, you look right through him. Your eyes are unfocusing and instead manifesting an image of a magazine with a candid of Oikawa spread out on two pages. He’d always been too beautiful, too _powerful_ not to be celebrated.

“I’m sorry,” Daichi settles a hand on top of yours.

You wave off his apologies, dissolving the melancholic atmosphere. “It’s been years, Sawamura! I’ve gone through my stages of grief, handsome.”

“Alright.” He nods and pats your hand once more. “You can call me Daichi, by the way.”

You tilt your head curiously. “You’re that comfortable with me already?”

“Old acquaintances, new friends. Besides, you give off this air of stability.” You inhale slowly. “Something that reminds me of home.”

Daichi scratches the back of his head with a blush high on his cheeks.

“Don’t be embarrassed!” With a giggle you lean forward and say, “That was very sweet of you, _Daichi_.”

Using his name only brightens the color of his cheeks, and he laughs nervously to dissipate the tiniest bit of tension he left lingering in the air. Absently, the hand that he doesn’t have on the table fiddles with the middle of his chest. It’s obvious to you he’s trying to touch the red string he thinks only he can see. You wait for what he’s about to ask. 

He bites his lower lip in thought, “I’m sorry if this is too personal of a question, but… did his red string connect?”

The question hangs around for a few long seconds before you shake your head and he lets out a huff of air.

“We broke up because our time together had ended.”

“What does that mean?”

You push the straw in your water cup around its rim a few times before answering. “It means that I fulfilled my reason for being in his life at that moment. I cared for him and opened his eyes to things he’d had trouble seeing to begin with.” Your eyes unfocused as they stare into the black space of the tile in the restaurant. “I loved him, and then I released him.”

Just like Daichi, your fingers wander to the middle of your chest, desperate to find purchase around a colored string. Except, unlike him, yours disappeared years ago.

Blinking rapidly, you replace your frown with a grin. “I didn’t mean to make the conversation so dismal.”

He waves you off. “I asked. Honestly, I was curious. You were always by his side cheering him on at games. I had just assumed the two of you would have at least made it.” Again, he tries to wrap his string around his finger. “You looked like you loved each other a lot.”

“I loved him, yes.”

Daichi picks up what you’re leaving out. “Did he love you?”

You lean down to capture the straw between your lips, eyes never leaving his, and take a long sip.

* * *

Daichi holds your hand the fourth time he walks you home from work.

“Are you always this friendly with civilians, Officer Daichi?” You ask, holding up your clasped hands in the yellow illumination of the streetlights. 

“Only the ones I especially like.”

“Oh, so you _especially_ like me now?” You check the time on your phone and look over at Daichi. “Although I appreciate you walking me home whenever you can, I don’t want it affecting your job—,”

“I promise it isn’t.” The two of you come to a stop in front of your place, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. Daichi is too busy looking over your facial features, bringing up his other hand so his thumb can smooth over the skin of your cheek. “Whenever we talk, I see something behind that smile you’ve worked so hard to perfect. Sometimes I think it’s grief and that you’re just barely holding yourself together.”

“Daichi…”

“I don’t know who or what put that distress there; whether it was your parents, your job, or even Oikawa, but I want to be at least one reason you smile _—really_ smile. Can I be?”

There’s pleading in his tone that causes your heart to throb and the string attached to it to vibrate. You look at him, the ground, your home, and then back to him.

“When are you done with your patrol?”

“Now,” he mumbles, eyes a little heavier than before. “Why?”

“Now?”

He nods, “By the time you get off work, my shift has already ended. I just enjoy walking you home.”

“Oh, I didn’t know… has it always been like that?”

“Mhmm, it has. Y/n?”

Your eyes are wide and your mouth has gone dry. “Yeah?”

“ _Why?_ ” He inquires again, voice just barely above that of a whisper.

“Because I like you,” you admit, swallowing nervously around nothing but the ball in your throat. “I like you and I would really like it if you came inside?”

“On one condition.” A smirk plays on his lips before he takes off his uniform hat and bends the tiniest bit down towards your face. “Can I kiss you?”

“If you want to.”

He chuckles and brushes his nose across the tip of yours, “Do you want me to?”

With his voice nothing but a rumble, you feel the rest of you melting, and you nod.

Daichi’s hand slides down your cheek to hold your jaw firmly. “What do we say?”

Without hesitation, you whisper, “Please.”

And right before he kisses you, his warm breath fanning across your lips, he says, “Good girl.”

The morning sun brings in a very pleasant Saturday, which is your favorite day of the week. You don’t have to wake up for work, send out any emails, or worry about weekly responsibilities. Usually, you wake up cuddled against one of the fluffy pillows, but this time you’re canoodling with a man.

“Good morning,” He gravels and your stomach does a flip like it had multiple times the night before. “Did you sleep well?”

Daichi places a kiss to the space between your brows and tickles his fingertips up and down the expanse of your arm.

_“You know, sweetheart, it’s best not to get too involved with people whose strings are already attached.”_

_“Why, dad?”_

_He flipped through old albums of his teenage years and early twenties, reminiscent of the relationships he helped flourish. But there was one picture that stopped him in his tracks. One of him with his arm wrapped around the neck of a lively and bright eyed individual._

_“They’re usually the kindest people.” Fifteen-year-old you had been more than confused. “They’re usually the hardest ones to get over.”_

Your own fingertips trace circles around the very middle of his chest, pacing through the red string each time you’re able. It makes it look like a phantom hallucination, so you close your eyes instead and focus on the gentle _ba-dump_ of Daichi’s heart.

“I slept blissfully. But shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

He hums. “I just wanted to check and make sure I didn’t wear you out last night.”

Daichi sniggers and you playfully smack his chest. “Excuse me, Mr. Sawamura, but I kept up with you just fine!”

With some strong arming, Daichi hoists you up to straddle his very naked lap. You’re looking down at him coyly, but he is sporting a lust-heavy gaze and a sharp smile.

“Think you can do it again?”

“I don’t know,” you roll your hips. “Can you?”

Daichi sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and digs his fingers into your hips. “I would love to.”

You swoop down to plant a kiss on him, tongue peeking out to soothe the bitten skin of his lip. 

“I like you,” he breathes against your spit slick lips.

“How much?” You tease.

“Enough to want to tell people I’m no longer single.”

You brace your hands on his chest and circle your hips in a way that causes a soft moan to tumble out of him.

“I think that can be arranged.”

The Fates and your father would be very disappointed at the fact that you were getting _‘too involved.’_

* * *

It’s months before you tell him about the strings.

Daichi has a four-day weekend, and he takes you camping to watch the stars through the trees, away from the artificial light in town. You love being with him; if his red string hadn’t already connected, you’d hold him tight, tangling his string around your fingers. You’d tie the stability and serenity that came packaged along with Daichi to your person, praying he liked you enough to stay forever. 

“How much do you know about the stars?”

Your eyes wander aimlessly around the sky. “Like the constellations?”

“Yeah,” he pulls at the blades of grass beneath his fingers. The crackling of the campfire is a serene melody in the background. “Do you know any stories?”

“Not really. Do you?”

He shakes his head. “But in high school, I bought a star in Orion’s Belt and named it after someone I liked.”

Daichi didn’t specify, but you assumed the star was for his soulmate. It was news to you that they were someone he knew in high school and you flicked through the files of your mind; trying to remember if you’d ever glimpsed at his string back then. Of course, you were much too busy with Oikawa and hardly paid attention to anything other than him.

“If you draw an imaginary line through Orion’s Belt, it takes you to the brightest star in the night sky called _Sirius_.” He pointed towards the sky and followed along a line of stars. “I thought naming one of them after him would be romantic.”

“Like your future together would be bright?”

He dropped his hand and pressed it against the middle of his chest. You can’t help but notice how small your string is compared to the other.

“Yes.”

The two of you lay in silence for a long while after that. If things had been so sweet between the two of them—like they had been for you and Oikawa—what happened? Did he get cold feet? Did they?

“If you bought them a star for a reason like that, then why are you fighting it?”

There’s a shift next to you, and Daichi is now watching you instead.

“Huh?”

“I can see your red string.” He inhales sharply. “You’ve known them, you still care about them, and yet you’re here with me.”

“How can you see it?”

You shrug. “First born’s in my family have always been able to see. We’re sort of… chess pieces in the game of soulmates.”

Daichi turns completely away from the sky, lying on his side to face you. “Plural?”

“Hm?” You turn to him.

“Plural strings?”

“Ah,” you chuckle. “Yes, there’s more than just the red one.” You gesture between the two of you, “Ours is brown.”

His eyes are wide and you hate that you know it’s common for him to do when he’s in awe. “What does that mean?”

“Brown means reliability and stability, and they can represent two separate things for me.” You lift your hand up to the sky, index finger following the same path of stars he had. “It connects me to people that need help from my ability, or it can connect me to others I’m meant to nurture and release.”

You think of the other brown strings that have crossed your path before. Some were entwined with sparkling gold tinsel, showing the friendship you would establish during time spent together; Tendou Satori, for example, came to mind. His dreams of pursuing a career as a chocolatier were partially realized through his friendship with you, and a pep talk from one Ushijima Wakatoshi.

Daichi’s quiet for a beat as he processes the information you’ve given. Then, he raises his hand to envelop yours, bringing it down to his chest.

“Which one are we?”

“I’m a trial run, Daichi.” He squeezes your hand at that. “I’m helping to prepare you for your destined person—the one you’re avoiding on the other end of that red string of yours.”

“And you knew?” You nod. “So when you told me you liked me…”

“ _No_ , that’s the worst part of it. No matter how real or strong my feelings are, I’m supposed to let you go.” You sit up, hoping that the change of position allows you to relay things properly. “I like you so much! I want to be selfish and keep you all to myself. I would _never_ lie about that.”

Daichi pulls himself up to face you properly. “How many times have you had to do this?”

“Help someone one? This would be the eighth time. But,” you ponder for a second, “this is only the second time feelings larger than friendship have been involved.”

Daichi glances up at the stars once more, fire illuminating the underside of his face in flickering orange. “The star wasn’t for the person on the other end of my red string.”

That shocks you. “Then… who?”

He takes a deep breath, looks you in the eye, and tells his story.

“I fought it for a while,” he explains. “It didn’t happen until third year. I cared about someone else, but the attraction was obviously still there. I was a coward and never told Kōshi— _Suga_ ,” he emphasizes, “I never told Sugawara that my red string connected. After I rejected my soulmate the first time, she tried to move on.” He shook his head. Daichi looked like he was berating himself internally. “She found someone who treated her well after that. We thought we could be happy with other people, and for a good long while, we were. Then, our relationships slowly fell apart.”

“The universe does that,” you sigh. “It fights and it fights, and it _fights_ for you and your soulmate to be together, even if it means the ones you care about in that moment get hurt.” You shrug as you remember all the small moments you’ve witnessed for others. “It’s why people like me exist. The necessary collateral.”

“That’s heartbreaking.”

“It is the first two or ten times,” The laugh you gave was bittersweet, but still contained mirth. “Then you expect it. You get a bit numb around the edges, but there’s still a part that hopes. Like maybe if you love this person hard enough—if you take well enough care of them, the string will turn red. But it never does.”

Daichi understands that to some extent you want the string between the two of you to turn red. He can see the hurt buried in the smile lines of your face, and he wishes he could’ve been that hope for you. “You deserve to find the person on the other end of your red string, Y/n.”

You smile at him and turn back to look at the twinkling stars. “If only I had a red string, Daichi.”

The grip he has on your hand tightens and the tremors that foreshadowed your end with Tooru quake through you.

He refuses to let go.

* * *

Daichi’s hand in yours is how the two of you part.

The two of you are on a date. He is dead set on making sure you have fun, even if he doesn’t entirely understand that being in his company is enjoyable enough. It’s the soft sincerity of his love and kindness that makes all of this that much more difficult.

“That was a good little café, right?” As he holds the door open for you, his eyes shine like he wants to be praised for choosing it.

It ignites a giggle. “Yes, very good! Their sandwiches and desserts were absolutely delicious.”

He laces his fingers through yours as the two of you walk through town; talking more in depth about each other’s favorite food and how there were other places you wanted to show the other.

When Daichi talks about shoyu ramen and how there’s a place a block or two from his apartment that he absolutely loves, your eyes catch the red string become taunt. It was already happening so quickly.

As you both notice, the smiles on your faces falter slightly. You observe as Daichi’s gaze follows the newly visible elongated string, and when he squeezes your hand, you shut your eyes to prepare yourself. At the other end is Michimiya Yui, and everything finally makes sense.

“Dai…” you mutter. It stops the two of you in the middle of a busy walkway while Daichi and Michimiya stare at one another. They are caught by their string; frozen in place. “Daichi, come on. The Fates are done waiting.”

Tugging on his hand helps him stumble forward, and thus jump starts Michimiya’s steps toward him, too.

“Wait, no, Y/n.”

“What?”

“I’m on a date with you! I can’t just—,”

“ _Yes_ ,” you insist. “You can and you will.”

Noticing that he pulled you to a stop, Michimiya sits at a nearby bench and respectfully waits with a faraway smile. It feels like she knows, and it makes you a little sick that she’s waiting for you to let him go so she can take your place. 

With a deep inhale, you tell yourself that this is it, but you wonder when or if it will ever be easy.

“Hey,” your voice is quiet, but Daichi is intently listening. “I really care for you, truly. You’re sweet and incredibly attentive to the people you care about. If I’m a little overwhelmed, you’re patient when I can’t get my words out properly. I’ve enjoyed you walking me home from work, and every minute you’ve put into being my boyfriend and taking care of me.”

“Y/n…” Daichi can see that you’re about to cry and tightens his hold on your hand.

“You’re ready. Maybe you’ve always been, but I know you love her. The Fates and universe won’t allow the two of you to be apart, especially when you yearn for one another.”

He bumps his forehead into yours, then pressed the gentlest of kisses to your lips. “I’m sorry.”

“Please,” you chuckle. “We both knew this would happen and I’m so happy for you.”

A glance at Michimiya easily tells you how lovely of a person she is. She isn’t staring at the two of you or watching your actions intently. Instead, she is turned away and waiting ever so patiently. You wonder how long she has been ready for Daichi to come back to her.

“Thank you.” Daichi lifts your hand to his lips and gives one last kiss to your knuckles. “Please, keep in touch with me. I don’t intend to just forget about you because this has ended.”

Those words slightly loosen the barbed wire stabbing your heart.

“Ya know, you’d be the first.” He looks scandalized by your statement, but you merely shrug. “Get going, handsome. Your soulmate’s waiting on you.”

Daichi doesn’t let go of your hand easily. As he walks towards Michimiya, your palms separate, and your fingers unfurl from one another until all that’s left is the hook of your index fingers. With one last nod and a bittersweet smile on your face, you’re the one to release him.


	4. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief intermission between stories~

After Daichi, you go home. Not to the place he walked you to every day after work, or where he kissed you for the first time and occupied your bed.

You go home to your parents, the only other place you find comfort in, and the crestfallen look on your face tells them all they need to know before they’re pulling you in for a reassuring hug. Stood in the kitchen, you go over the details of the relationship. Your eyes burst like fireworks when you wax poetic over the way he treated you and how comforted he made you feel. But like normal fireworks, the light is spectacular for a few seconds before the sky is dark again. You tell them of Michimiya Yui, the lucky woman waiting at the end of Daichi’s sturdy red string, and your father observes you with eyes overly wise.

“I’m proud of you,” he grins, and you begin to fall apart clutching the countertops for support. “You loved that man and you still did what was best for him.”

The sounds you make are harrowing as you bend over, fingers white knuckling the granite, and breakdown. “I wanted to be what was best for him, dad!”

Your mom is quick to wrap you up in her arms. Although she has agreed with your dad’s way of thinking and implemented his teachings, she has always been willing to help you take on the burden of this ‘gift.’

His face is set in a heartbreaking frown, like he doesn’t want to see his daughter in such pain. But this was the path they forced the both of you to take. “Sweetheart, I told you—,”

“I _know_ what you told me! I know!” You’re clutching at your mom’s shoulders like she is an anchor to your sanity, and she holds on as tightly as she’s able. “But I wanted him, I wanted him to choose _me_! I wanted to be someone’s first choice for once in my life!”

Your knees give out as you wail out a chest aching sob. With your mom unable to hold you up, your knees meet the floor; nails digging into the grout as heavy raindrop sized tears splatter against the tile.

“I didn’t want to be a stepping stone or a catalyst for change. I didn’t want to be the realization he needed to accept what he had already let go of.”

You can vaguely hear your mom pleading with your dad to do or say something, _anything_. Maybe she’s crying, but you can’t hear through your own shudders and sobs.

“I thought I was used to this,” the hiccuping makes it hard to speak clearly, “but then someone like D-Daichi comes along and reminds m-me that someone like him doesn’t exist f-for me.”

A shadow falls over you, and arms pull you into the sturdy chest of your dad. It only makes the chest rattling bawling grow harsher.

“I’m sorry,” he soothes, “I’m so, so sorry.”

* * *

Although Daichi asked to keep in touch, you don’t want to. Thankfully, staying at your parents’ house gives you the benefit of taking a different route to and from work. You’re hoping that the string, having evaporated into thin air, means that his memories of you will soon do the same.

“Dad?”

He glances at you over his book. “Hm?”

“When you helped people, and the string disappeared, did you ever run into them again?”

He tilted his head back and forth in thought. “Occasionally, why?”

You take a sip of your coffee, never looking him in the eye. “Did they remember you?”

“Never as well as I remembered them, unfortunately. The ole brain machine tends to get fuzzy over the years, anyway. To them I was just a, uh, dusty old book,” he waves the one in his hand as a prop, “forgotten in the very back of the shelf.”

“I hope Daichi forgets about me.” You nod firmly, as if you’re trying to convince yourself that being a stranger is what you want. “Just like Oikawa did.”

Your dad slips his bookmark in place and sets the book down next to him. His eyes are boring into you, evaluating your body language and the way your eyes move.

“What makes you think that high school boyfriend of yours forgot you?”

You narrow your eyes at the liquid in your cup, “What makes you think he didn’t?”

“Sweetheart, the man’s a pro volleyball player in Argentina. He could take that step because of the support you gave him for two years, without fail. If he doesn’t have you on his mind whenever he _breathes_ , I will have to talk to The Fates myself.”

His passionate declaration makes you giggle. “I’d much rather he pay attention to his technique rather than have me on his mind so often.”

“Can I tell you something?”

You look him in the eyes for the first time. “Yes?”

“I truly believe that any person your strings connect to will not forget you. Whether it’s because of the strings or the things you make them feel—you are not a forgettable person.” He moves a little closer to show the seriousness in his eyes. “Red string of fate or not, the places they’ve been and the activities they did with you all hold a memory of you beside them. The memory of you is inescapable, and that is something I believe with my entire heart and soul.”

“Inescapable?”

He nods. “Do you know that poem by M. K. Wilde? The love poem?”

He always did this. He’d take a situation and relate it to a piece of obscure literature that he would often have to translate for you. You were sure this would be another one of those things.

“How does it go, dad?”

“I don’t remember all of it,” he says, “but the last stanza makes me think of you.”

He closes his eyes like the words are painted on the backs of his eyelids, but before he can utter a word, your mom comes around the corner.

_“Women like me will love you from a distance_

_of a thousand syllables while laying in_

_your bed,_

_we will destroy you in the most_

_beautiful way possible,_

_and when we leave you will finally_

_understand_

_why storms are named after people.”_

She’s smiling at both you and your father. It’s obvious that this is something they’ve discussed two or three times before. Maybe even more.

“The poem is called _Katrina,_ but it might as well be _Y/n_ instead.”

If she’s renaming it after you, perhaps you should look up and read the poem in its entirety.

Your mom sits next to you and pats your thigh. “I understand it’s painful, my dear, but don’t allow the pain to disturb the connections you’ve made.”

“Well,” your dad clears his throat. “I think she deserves a bit of a break, don’t you?”

“Yes, but afterward,” She turns away from him and in a gentle voice says. “When strength returns to your limbs, pick up the phone. Tell that boy you expect his gratitude for the rest of his life.”

She says it with a chuckle, but you know she means it. Maybe friendship after heartbreak wouldn’t be all that bad to pursue.


	5. Terushima Yuuji

There is a lull in time between Daichi and the next. A time The Fates seem to allow you in order to pick up the pieces and let their glue dry, just in time for the other string to come. Except, sometimes the glue forgets its job, and the loosely mended pieces of your heart fall back out of place, one by one.

Terushima Yūji is an apprentice hairstylist. It starts off with an impromptu hair appointment and his fingers massaging against your scalp in the shampoo bowl.

“Can I take you out for dinner?”

“Huh?” You open one eye to squint at him over you. There’s a bashful smirk on his face. “Dinner?”

There’s a merciless whack over his head with a broom and the manager, through clenched teeth, chastises him for flirting.

“Don’t ask out a customer like that, dummy! You’ll make her uncomfortable!”

Terushima pouts and mutters out an apology to both you and the manager. You’re still shocked from the initial question and take a minute to compose yourself. He’s babbling on about how his manager usually only has him cleaning up hair off the floor, and how he just really wants to start cutting, styling, and dyeing hair for real.

“I’m lucky,” he says.

“Hm?”

“That she even let me wash your hair, I mean.”

“Why doesn’t she let you do anything?” You chuckle and peek at him again. “Did you dye an old lady’s hair pink or something?”

Terushima looks offended that you would even accuse him of such a mess up and he childishly sticks his tongue out at you.

“I never did that!” He pauses and laughs to himself. “I would have dyed it bright yellow and sent it to my old volleyball buddies.”

You cover your mouth so as to not laugh as loudly at the image of an elderly woman with hair that could outshine the sun. _He’s fun_ , you think. And fun is definitely what you need.

He heaves out a sigh as the water cascades down your hair. “Ah, sometimes I feel like I need to let off a little steam.”

“So, dinner?”

The sprayer stops mid-rinse. “What?”

You look up at him. Eyes sharp and an alluring tug at the corners of your lips, leaves his own eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

“You can take me out to dinner.”

A black string discretely twists itself to life.

Terushima Yūji is a distraction.

* * *

You know that the black thread connecting you and Terushima is nothing but the amalgamation of subcategories in your own personal stages of grief.

  * _**Loneliness**_



There was an emptiness that you hadn’t realized was there before Daichi. With dexterity, he sewed up the void one impossibly delicate stitch at a time. In his absence, the emptiness only grew larger until the emptiness was gaping enough to swallow you whole. The first time you walked home from work and he was no longer there waiting, you bit your bottom lip and stifled a cry.

Inside your home was no better. There is an echo of him in its walls; the kitchen pots and pans clink and clunk by themselves and the rice cooker goes off, letting you know that rice for two has fully cooked. The bedroom is even worse. Sheets that once held the warmth of another person never feel quite right. They never smell the same either; phantom perfumes of a past inhabitant having faded in the days without them. There are too many pillows and the mattress is too big. Everything is _too_ much of a reminder that for a minor blip in time you were loved and held securely under the covers.

Terushima is a salve on an open wound and a temporary bandage over popped stitches. Time with him is self-indulgent and heart pounding. He knocks on your door at 10 o’clock at night and asks if you want to grab a drink and maybe go to a club. He doesn’t tell you to dress up—but loves when you do—and will take you out in sweatpants and a t-shirt.

“You don’t have to worry about anything,” he says with a cocky grin. “I’m the one taking you home!”

He’ll call you at lunchtime when both of you are at work and ask if you’re having a good day, if anyone is picking on you, and if he has to give them a talking to. It makes you laugh, thinking about his smartass words meant to agitate, but how horrible he’d be in any incited fight. Sure, he’d be able to throw a solid punch or two, but beyond that you foresee having to patch him up.

“You can’t even fight, Terushima!”

“My rugged good looks would intimidate them.”

“I hate how serious you sound right now.”

It’s after the lunchtime calls and the impromptu evening dates that you become comfortable enough to call him in the middle of the night. The bed is cold and so are the many pillows taking up the other side.

Terushima’s voice is groggy when he answers. You’ve obviously woken him up in the middle of a deep slumber at 2 o’clock in the morning.

“Teru,” you whisper. “I’m sorry that I woke you up.”

“L/n?” He clears his throat and there’s a shuffling of sheets. “What’s wrong?”

You know he must’ve checked the time because you hear a sharp hiss from him and a muffled curse.

_I’m lonely._

“I can’t sleep.” He hums in response. “I can’t get comfortable.”

“Bed too hot?” He gravels.

“Opposite,” you sigh. “Too cold.”

There’s a soft grunt before silence.

“Yūji,” the way you say his name is filled with so much breath that you’re shocked it was even audible.

The sound of rustling sheets can be heard again, and this time his voice rings out clear as day. “Yes?”

“Can you come over?” The black string nearly blends into the darkness of your bedroom, but it still shines with specks of yellowish-gold in its fibers. “Maybe warm me up…help me get to sleep.” 

Terushima is quiet on the other end, and you’re nervously trying to twist up your fingers in the bedsheets.

“I’m on my way.”

  * **_Guilt_**



Guilt comes at the same time you do, with Yūji’s face buried between your thighs and your back arched to the sky. He kisses up your stomach and carves attention into your breasts with his tongue. Fingers touch you in all the ways the remnant memories of another did, but the name you cry out isn’t his, although their syllables are the same. You feel as if you’re forcibly overwriting the past and filling the emptiness with a temporary fix. Everything feels just slightly off kilter, but you close your eyes and take a deep breath in.

Yūji threads his fingers through yours and places them above your head.

“Fill me up,” you mumble with his chest pressed against yours, “until there are no more empty spaces.”

It isn’t until the morning, when he’s sitting up in your bed, letting you lean against his side, that he asks questions.

“So what was that last night?”

“Mm, I’m pretty sure that was sex.”

Terushima snorts and gently tugs at your ear. “You know what I mean. Did something happen last night that made you want to call me?”

You sit yourself up further and look him in the eye. “I told you on the phone.”

“Yeah, I know. You couldn’t get comfortable and the bed was cold.” His eyes flicker down to a bruise he sucked into your neck the night before. “Where do we go from here?”

Internally, you panic. You hadn’t thought this far—or at all—except for needing someone to escape into last night. Now come the adult things: repercussions and decisions. This was the worst part of it all: Hurting yourself and hurting another. How do you explain that having sex was just a way for you to run away from the all-encompassing devastation of loss and loneliness? Everything was crumbling down in front of you in seconds.

“It doesn’t have to be anything,” he supplies for your tortured brain.

“What?”

“The sex. We don’t have to label it or be anything other than friends.”

“Why?”

Yūji seems shocked at your question, but he recovers quickly and chuckles. “Something obviously happened or is _happening_ to you, Y/n.” How could he tell? “You started crying last night in the middle of everything, so you remember?”

You don’t. God, how could you not even remember crying?

“I stopped and asked if you were alright, but you just nodded your head and told me to keep going.” His fingers come up and brush at your cheeks. “Even when I tried to pull away, you locked your legs around me and kept me still. You were trembling.”

“I’m so sorry, Yūji.” Your head falls into your hands. You’re embarrassed, and the guilt eats away at you from the inside out. “I’m a mess and I dragged you into it.”

“What a pretty fucking mess you are.” He joked, and when you peeked at him through your fingers, he was grinning. “Should I thank you for dragging me into it, or is that too weird?”

You shove his shoulder lightly with a stilted laugh of your own. “Shut up, I’m serious.”

With a sigh, he tugs you back into his side. “So am I. This can just be a one-time thing or you can have me come over whenever you need me to rock your world again, deal?”

Without thinking, you press your face into the side of his neck and thank him. “Deal.”

“Good,” he kisses the top of your head. “Keep calling me Yūji. I think we’re more than close enough now.”

Terushima Yūji is still a distraction, but he’s there to take care of you for the time being.

  * **_Disengagement_**



It works with Yūji for a good while until it doesn’t. A letter from across the sea breaks apart your carefully crafted calm.

You’re in the kitchen making lunch when Yūji comes in with your Mail in hand. He waves a letter in the air and says, “Hey, who do you know from Argentina?”

“Oikawa,” you deadpan. The air has been sucked out of the room and the pause button has been hit on your meal prepping. “Read it to me, will you?”

Yūji hesitates, noticing the shift in your voice, but pulls open the envelope like you’ve asked.

“‘ _Y/n, Hope you don’t think I’m stalking you!’_ —He put ‘xD’ as a laughing face, what is this 2005?—‘ _I got your new address from Iwa-chan, he said that the two of you get lunch every once in a while? He tells me about you sometimes. He says you’re doing better and I hope you are.’”_

Yūji looks up from the letter with a start when a loud clatter comes from you throwing your kitchen knife into the sink.

“I’m sorry, please continue.”

Reluctantly, he does.

 _“‘Anyway, I guess I’m writing this letter as an apology and as a thank you. You treated me so well in high school. You loved me,’”_ Yūji clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable, _“‘and pushed me towards the path I almost stopped myself from taking. I am where I am because of you. So, thank you. But I’m also sorry for how everything happened and how it ended. I never said that I—,”_

“That’s enough.”

He immediately folds up the letter and slaps it down on the counter. “Can I touch you?”

You nod, and he takes the steps forward to wrap his arms around you. You’re thankful for his comfort, but it isn’t needed. You feel nothing. In truth, what happened was never Oikawa’s fault. But you never needed nor asked for closure. It only made you feel more like a pawn pushed across the darkened squares of a chessboard until you were knocked completely off.

The pain and monotonous act of pretending you’re okay becomes aggravatingly old.

“I’m tired, Yūji.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Cut all the strings that’ll bind me to anyone else.”

You’ve never told him anything about your ‘gift’ or The Fates. He knows nothing of the thread connecting you, nor does he know that there is anything other than the ineluctable red string of fate. He wouldn’t know what you mean or how serious you were.

Yet he still tries to understand.

“Do I need a special pair of scissors? Maybe some fabric scissors or will my super cool matte black shears work on them?”

You snort, “let’s try your super cool shears first.”

“Good idea.” Yūji squeezes you once more before turning back to your abandoned food prep. “Let’s get back to the food. I’m starving!”

Black often represented mourning, and in your relationship with Yūji, he allowed you the platform to grieve in ways you could not before. There is also unhappiness, remorse, anger, and fear twisted up inside of the absence of color, but power and sexuality frequently shine through.

You know that grief is cyclical. Weeks, months, and years could go by, yet on a beautiful sunny Friday when the birds are chirping, you’re enjoying the cool breeze on your skin, and you’re smiling up at the clear blue sky, it comes crawling back whispering your name.

 _“Do you remember me?”_ It asks. _“Do you remember what I feel like?”_

And then, you’re dissolving into tears just as you did on the day grief made itself a home in your bones.

But as you watch Yūji delicately move around ingredients on your kitchen counter, you think The Fates brought him to unlock the deepest parts of your emotions. Every time he touches you intimately, you shift through the five stages of grief and then some. He allows you to _be_ , to _feel_ , and after all the moments before when you hadn’t allowed yourself to, you’re thankful for him.

You reach out, link your pinky with his, and smile.

* * *

 **Fun (?) Fact:** Terushima isn’t someone Y/n falls in love with, but is essentially someone she needs/desires to have in her life. He is the first string connection that she believes is for her benefit, and not the other persons.

 **Fun (?) Fact:** Y/n still hasn’t reached out to Daichi, and although she thinks she wants to, she doesn’t know if she can.


	6. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last bit of Oikawa’s letter is read.

Oikawa’s letter sits on your kitchen counter waiting for you to finish it.

Yūji has fallen asleep on the couch, courtesy of his overconsumption of your food. If you’re quick enough, you can finish the letter and clean yourself up after any potential emotional messes before he wakes up from his nap.

You can be quick. You can do it.

Reaching out, you snatch the paper up and flip it between your fingers. His handwriting gives you pause even as you skim over the words Yūji already read for you. Then, like a brightly lit beacon, the sentence you stopped him on glares back at you.

_“‘I never said that I loved you.’”_

You whisper it to yourself. Repeating it a few times to feel the words roll around your tongue, testing the weight of them before continuing to read silently.

_‘I don’t know when I realized my errors or how I just kept taking and taking from you.’_

You grip the edges of the letter tightly and take a deep breath.

_‘If I’d only been a better kid, I would’ve treated you how you deserved to be treated. I would have been able to share this world with you. I would have told you ‘I love you’ properly. Please, if there’s anything I can do for you—anything at all—don’t hesitate to reach out. I owe you so much.’_

There’s a chunk of blank space at the bottom of the letter, right before he signed his name, and the words between force you to blink away tears.

_‘I loved you, more than I thought was possible. I’m sorry it’s late.’_

With a shake of your head, you dig into your pocket and pull out your phone to send a text.

  


You hear Yūji’s groggy voice call out, sleep laden eyes peering over the top of the couch at you. “You ok?”

“Yeah, I am.” You set both the letter and your phone down on the counter, and walk around the couch to sit on its edge. “You up for a cuddle?”

“Sure, but if I get hot, I’m pushing you off.”

You place your hand over your heart, faking exasperation. “I fed you and let you sleep on my couch, yet I’m threatened like this?”

Still, you situate yourself to be snug against his chest. A nap on a day off together is a splendid way to welcome the evening. There’s a moment of quiet after you’ve spoken, and you’re sure Yūji’s fallen back asleep, but then you feel his chest rumble with a question.

“Are you going to write him back?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, closing your eyes.

“What will you say?”

You hadn’t thought that far yet. The letter back wouldn’t be like the one you received. It would be short and to the point; no pillowy words that made the grit of your personal life seem softer under a magnifying glass. You would write what you had always told him.

“I’ll say, _‘don’t overwork yourself_ ,’ and _‘I believe in you, I’m proud of you, and I still support you.’_ ”

_Transformation._


	7. Bokuto Koutarou

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bokuto's story will have two parts

Yūji’s manager finally starts letting him cut hair, and he’s busier all the time. He messages you repeated apologies and requests for rain checks, and you oblige. It isn’t his fault. He was a distraction wrapped in black and sunshine gold. And now your only safe place couldn’t listen to your whining. 

The botched plan to hangout lands you at the bar you and Yūji frequent; regulars are keeping to themselves after the workweek on a Friday night and you’re chatting with the bartender, asking about their partner. They disappear at the other end of the bar for a minute to attend to a different customer, before coming back over and placing another drink in front of you.

You cock an eyebrow at them. “Are you trying to get me to spill more secrets or something?”

They snickered, “No,” they tilt their head to the customer they just helped. “He bought it for you, said he likes how pretty you look when you talk.”

With wide eyes, you blink once and then look over at the man at the other end. He has his elbow balanced on the bar and his chin in his hand, and there’s an adorably smitten smile on his face as he gazes back at you. He looks a bit familiar; spiky silverish-grey hair with stark black streaks and sharp golden eyes—maybe it’s the uncanny resemblance to an owl that leaves your brain the tiniest bit itchy.

You raise the glass up to thank him before taking a healthy sip and you’re rewarded with a wink.

“Is he a regular?” You ask the bartender, not yet looking away from the man.

“A familiar face, yes. He comes in here a few times a month, but leaves before the weekend rush.”

“Too loud?”

“For him?” They laugh. “Definitely not, he just can’t make that much of a fuss in the public eye.”

That catches your attention and you turn back to face the bartender. “The public eye?” You mock whisper, “Is he a celebrity?”

“Professional athlete.”

By the time you look back over, the man has already taken the seat next to you. “Are you whispering about me?”

His eyes are bright and burning, like he’s excited to be the center of a conversation in the purest way possible.

“I’m a bit curious about you, so I was asking a question or two.”

The man hums, “I can answer however many questions you have!” He sticks out his hand to shake and when you take it he says, “I’m Bokuto Koutarou.”

It clicks then, just exactly why he’s so familiar. He’s been on television and painted across magazines, just like the other volleyball players in your life. He was even the captain of Fukurodani when you were a third year. Sometimes you would sit with the Aoba Johsai VBC watching practice games involving this man, and the images of a blustering teenager with a child-like exuberance comes to mind.

“ _Oh_ ,” you breathe, “I know you.”

And a yellow thread weaves itself between you.

* * *

At first, you say absolutely nothing. That night, you drank the glass empty and left with a smile and a wink; liquid confidence warming your blood.

You text Yūji and tell him about the Fukurodani captain and his cute flirtations. He calls you immediately.

“Did you sleep with him?”

“ _No?_ Why, are you jealous?”

He chuckles. “No,” there’s a door chime and the rattling of keys. “I just wanted to ask if all that crackhead energy he probably still exudes translates over to his sex life, too.”

“If it ever happens, I’ll let you know.” You laugh and plop yourself into your bed. “Are you locking up?”

“Mhmm, the manager let me close alone tonight.”

“Oh, how responsible!”

“Shut up, I’m _plenty_ responsible!”

“Yes, I know. Anyway, do I get to see you soon?” You sigh, “I miss you.”

“I’ve got Sunday off, but unless you’re down to watch me sleep, I’m not sure I’d be much company.”

Yūji’s lack of presence in your life bugs you, but you know he’d help with anything if you asked. You don’t want to become a nuisance.

“It’s alright, you deserve undisturbed rest! I’ll talk to you later, ok?”

“Y/n?”

“Hm?”

“You don’t bother me.”

He can’t see it, but you grimace. “When did I say that?”

There’s a loud sigh on the other end. “You didn’t, but I think you need reminding sometimes.”

* * *

The bartender tells you that Bokuto now asks about you every time he comes in for a drink. Without pressing too harshly forward, you ask them what days he comes in, hoping that maybe you’ll be able to see him again. After all, The Fates will demand it.

The two of you talk about work, what it’s like being a professional volleyball player, and how many friends from the past you have in common. A smile spreads over his features when you briefly mention Daichi. He asks questions about him, wondering how the former captain is doing, and although you answer, it is obvious how stiff you grow with each question. Especially when news has already gotten around about him and Yui.

Bokuto isn’t blind to how the drinks have piled on the surrounding bar. The bartender, knowing your woes, shakes their head and clears the mess.

“Are you alright?”

“Just fine hands-,” the compliment stutters to a stop. Handsome is a generic compliment, but it’s what you’d often call Daichi. You haven’t even slipped up using it on Yūji, so why now? You take one deep breath. “Sorry, Bokuto, I’m alright.”

It’s cute when he deflates just the tiniest bit. He’s trying to fight it, like he doesn’t want to fall back into the fragile mentality that he had in his youth, but it’s hard when you look like you’re trying to find solace at the bottom of a bottle.

The tips of his fingers graze across your knuckles, and yours twitch slightly in response.

“Can I help?”

You look down at the string and think about how pleasant yellow is supposed to feel. The color itself represents friendship, joy, hope, sunshine, and optimism. Although there are other disadvantages to the color, you wonder if The Fates have gifted you this man as a more _wholesome_ escape from the growing infection in your chest—the same way they gave you Yūji.

_Yūji._ You miss Yūji. You miss his reassuring smiles and his warm hugs. You miss him coming over, dangling the spare key to your place in front of you; proud that he used it.

No one has touched you in _so_ long. 

Bokuto’s fingers lace themselves with yours on the bar top, and you nod, “There is something you can do for me, if you’re willing.”

The request you ask Bokuto is simple. In your bed, under the sheets, you ask him to put those muscles to use and hold you. This is only the 5th time you’ve interacted, and it’s probably super overwhelming for him having to hold the body of a weeping woman in his arms. But he doesn’t ask questions, and it’s the warm acceptance of this man that makes you want to nuzzle in closer.

“Are you cold?” He asks, quieter than you’ve ever heard him speak. His arms pull the comforter further up your shoulders and he tries to tuck the fabric in around you, while also tightening his hold. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” your voice is nothing but a gravelly croak. “I’m sorry about this. You barely know me and I have you comforting me in my bed.”

Bokuto’s chuckle feels like a vibration with your cheek against his chest.

“I don’t mind! I actually really enjoy this. Comforting someone is super nice!”

“Doesn’t it feel like a burden?”

“What d’ya mean?”

You crane your head to look up at him. “Taking on someone else’s problems, effectively making them your own and opening up to the possibility of being hurt yourself.”

Bokuto’s face scrunches up in thought. His chin dimples and you fight the urge to poke the skin there.

“It isn’t a burden. It’s like a welcomed responsibility?” He huffs, frustrated with the words he’s unable to find to explain properly. “If I didn’t want to help take on your feelings or problems, then I wouldn’t ask! Simple as that. I ask because I want to help and you’re pretty cute, so that’s a bonus for me!”

He winks and grins obnoxiously. When you nuzzle your face into his neck, slightly embarrassed, his voice becomes deeper and far more serious.

“I can tell, ya know.”

“Hm?”

“It’s pretty obvious that you give a lot to others and leave next to nothing for yourself.” Fingertips tip your chin back before they gently tap at the skin beneath your eyes. “Whenever I see you at the bar, you look like you’re trying to forget something.”

“What if I’m just trying to forget the grueling work day?” You chuckle.

“That could be,” he kisses your forehead. “But there’s always a deep furrow between your eyebrows. They disappear when you see me, kinda like you’re relieved of your duty to _remember_.”

There’s no answer from you for a few long minutes. You’re wondering how this man has somehow read you so easily. A handful of conversations had at a local bar amongst dozens of drinks, and he somehow knew the dirty surface of your internal struggles. Have you always worn your emotions on your face so readily?

“I have someone though.”

“What do you mean?”

“A man that gives a lot to me. He’s taken care of me for a few months and I cherish him deeply.” Bokuto hums while smoothing circles into your skin. “He hasn’t been able to come by and spend time with me lately. He’s had to put rainchecks on a few of our plans and I’ve gotten much more lonely as of late.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“No!” There is obvious concern that dissipates in Bokuto’s eyes when you deny the possibility of a boyfriend. “We’re friends, um, I’ve slept with him before, but it isn’t anything serious.”

“But he means a lot to you?”

“Is that bad?”

“Not at all. I’m just trying to figure out if I have to put on my battle armor and fight for your hand in… potential boyfriend-matrimony!”

You chuckle. “Potential boyfriend-matrimony?”

“Yeah, it’s a thing I just created.”

Through the haze of your laughter and his gentle caresses, you can hear the wind tremble against the window outside. There is a thump in the middle of your chest, something that dyes the inner fibers of the yellow string a very pale pink. Though the feeling kindling in your chest speaks volumes, it falls on deaf ears.

“Can I tell you something?” you ask, nervous.

“Sure!” His eyes gleam at the prospect of taking in new information about the person in his arms. “Is it a secret?”

“Sort of.” With a hand pressed against his chest and the tickle of a short floating string between you, you tell him everything.

About your family, the “gift”, your duties, Oikawa, Daichi, Yuji, and everything else in between. You tell him about the sunny yellow fibers between you and watch as he reaches around to touch something he can’t even see. He asks a lot of questions; eyes so wide and unblinking that you worry he’ll dry them out. He’s listening. He’s smiling. But best of all, he never asks why the string connected or how long you’ll stay. Bokuto simply holds you close and absently traces patterns on your back as the two of you talk on and off until both of you fall asleep.

* * *

Bokuto asks you to come to his practices.

You accept, telling him you do little on your days off except stay at home and binge watch the tv shows you’ve missed. When you get there, you’re thankful that the only familiar face from your days as a teenager is that of one Hinata Shōyō.

He’s one of the first to call out to you when he sees you. Hinata is taller than the last time you saw him, and he is much stronger than you’d ever thought possible. A smile spreads across your face and you ruffle his hair, remembering how small he was as a first year.

“Hinata, you’ve done so well for yourself! Congratulations! What have you been up to since you graduated? Sorry, I haven’t been keeping up with volleyball too much lately.”

Hinata blushes slightly, and you promptly feel the peering eyes of his teammates on your back.

“That’s alright! I went to Brazil for two years and played beach volleyball.” Enthusiasm fell off of Hinata as he recounted his time in Rio to you animatedly. It was nice to hear that he achieved his dream, after all, he was a big playing factor in your first string connection. “Oh! And guess who I ran into? Oikawa-san!”

The surprise you felt was blatant. You wondered how he was doing and if he was faring well. Of course, being successful and being mentally, physically, and emotionally alright were two very different things. It felt natural to worry. As if some part of his happiness was your responsibility still. You could only hope that you did a good enough job to prepare him for whatever it was he had to face.

You want to ask.

You want to see a picture, one not from a magazine.

You want to know if he spoke about you.

“I hope you stay long enough so I can introduce you to a few of my senpai’s!”

You try in vain to pull words from your throat, but they stay stuck and unreachable.

“L/n-san?” Hinata is confused, and a bit concerned by your prolonged silence.

Being nearby, Bokuto notices the distress in your features immediately.

“Hey!” He jogs over and quickly snatches Hinata into his side, jostling the younger man. “We gotta get practicing—Let’s go Hinata!”

Bokuto’s eyes flit quickly over to you and he winks. Relief floods your body and your shoulders relax.

“I’ll go sit on the side and watch!” You amble over to a nearby bench and all but collapse onto it.

You don’t know why Oikawa’s name alone still holds such power over your body’s reaction. Maybe it’s the fact he was your first love, or because of that stupidly late letter you got in the mail. Your phone is out as soon as you regain your bearings, hovering over Yuji’s name wanting so badly to hear his voice and to tell him how embarrassed you felt, but you sit there and think about how you haven’t even told him the whole story. How Bokuto knows more than he does about your past. How Oikawa made you feel, what that letter truly did to the fragility of your composure, or how Daichi’s hand leaving yours ripped you apart. He knows about Bokuto, sure, but he doesn’t know what any of your relationships mean and why they all hurt so much.

The guilt never seems to leave.

“Y/n.” Bokuto is staring down at you, face contorted in worry. “Sorry, was it a bad idea to bring you?”

He’s already sweaty from practice, and you realize that you zoned out for far longer than intended.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m happy to be here and watch your practice.”

Despite his innate boisterousness, Bokuto has a hidden hushed gentleness about him that he puts into practice with you more often than not. It’s nice, you suppose, but sometimes you feel as if he’s having to treat you with kid gloves. You hate that your fragility has been so apparent lately.

“Go on,” you shoo. “Show me more of that ace mentality I always heard about!”

Bokuto’s expression shifted to one of sparkling excitement, and he immediately ran back onto the court.

You could focus on this; watch him practice with his MSBY teammates until it was time to leave. He was trying his best to make you feel better by bringing you here, the least you could do was get out of your own head for once.

So you watch; laughing and cheering during impressive plays and silly mess ups. It’s honest fun that pulls you away from the incessant droning voice in your head. The yellow-haired teammate—Miya-san, you think—pulls you up and out of your seat, determined to get you involved.

“We should teach ya, Miss L/n! After all, we have a group of old veterans comin’ around to play!”

The curly dark-haired one scoffs, “You can’t expect her to learn a professional sport so quickly.”

Miya-san barks back, “It’s just for fun, Omi!”

You look over to their other teammates who are laughing at Miya pulling you, and at Sakusa’s (?) ever growing stress vein near his temple. Bokuto is smiling widely and encouraging you forward. You’re about to go willingly, allowing Miya to settle a volleyball in your hands, when something flickers out of the corner of your eye—something that looks a lot like Karasuno’s old third years.

Among them is a familiar face you hadn’t been ready to see again.

* * *

Bokuto swears Hinata told him Daichi couldn’t get out of work.

“I’d never have you come and not tell you one of your exes would show up.” He almost looks scared that you’ll be angry, or maybe that you won’t talk to him.

“It’s fine.”

“It isn’t.”

“Well, no,” you agree, “but it isn’t your fault.”

You can feel Daichi’s eyes flickering between you and the conversation he’s immersed in. His gaze burns and another practiced smile stitches its way onto your cheeks.

“I’ve got to get used to this.” You look up at Bokuto. “But you’ll help, right?”

The sparkle in his eyes is back, and he peppers a few chaste kisses on your forehead. “Definitely!”

Anxiety brews thickly in your stomach. The practice game is fun; watching them play, though some rustier than others, is entertaining and brings a genuine grin to your face. Yet, Daichi won’t stop staring. He’s waved once and smiled at you more, but you still want the ground to swallow you whole.

Afterward, he makes way for you. Purposely sitting down on the bench next to you, wiping the sweat on his forehead away with the towel draped over his shoulder.

“It’s been awhile,” he starts. “How are you?”

“I’m alright.” You hope he believes you because, mostly, it’s true. “Hanging in there. How about you?”

There’s a fond softness in his features while his eyes downcast to a thin bracelet around his wrist.

“Great, actually.”

You ignore the sharp lightning bolt in your chest.

“I’m happy for you,” and it’s true. No matter how much it hurts. “And-and Michimiya? She’s happy?”

He nods. “I’d like to think so.” 

“I’m glad.”

There’s a growing silence between the two of you, but it’s time that allows you to make eye contact with Bokuto. He winks at you and gives you a wide smile.

“I haven’t heard from you.”

_Inhale_. “I needed time. It’s pretty hard giving away someone you love, ya know?”

There’s a deep crease in Daichi’s forehead. It’s obvious that he feels bad about the situation and that he didn’t quite take that last step in understanding what giving him up meant. It’s alright though. None of them ever think about the consequences of the love you’ve given until they’ve mulled over things for a bit. They can’t all be as observant as Yūji or as caring as Bokuto. Daichi is sweet, caring, and grounded you to the very earth. He was and is everything you had wanted in a partner, but they meant him for another.

“I didn’t—I’m sorry. You told me about your hardships when we were together, but I felt like they didn’t apply to me.”

“We were happy.” You shrug your shoulders, eyes swimming with the threat of tears. “I told you I’m collateral.”

“I remember telling you it was heartbreaking.”

“Remember that you were right.” You look at him, watery smile and all. “It’s fucking heartbreaking knowing that you’ll never be enough.”

“Y/n…” he mutters, reaching out to pull you into him. “I’m sorry.”

“Please,” you’re shaking and swallowing around a disgusting blob of inadequacy. “Don’t apologize. It isn’t your fault.”

Before his arms can wrap around you, there are stronger ones pulling you out of your seat and into a firm chest.

“I think you lost the right to comfort her, Sawamura-san.”

Bokuto’s words startle a blush from you, and your hands fly up to grasp at his forearms.

Daichi holds his hands up. “S-sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Reflex,” you mutter, and Bokuto holds you tighter.

“Reflex or not,” he retorts, “I’ll be the one to comfort her from now on.”

You pat his forearms, giving him a firm squeeze to signal that you were okay.

“Daichi,” you close your eyes briefly. _Exhale_. “Sawamura-san, you still mean a lot to me and I truly appreciated our time together, but it still hurts.”

He nods, understanding. There’s a familiar expression on his face, one of thinly veiled misery, the same you’ve seen reflected in a mirror more times than not.

“I never wanted to hurt you.” You know. “I didn’t want to become like the others, but it was inevitable, wasn’t it?”

“That’s how it’s been. I should have known better, too. I’ll be alright though.” You gently knock your head back into Bokuto. “But I have people willing to listen and pick me back up.”

Daichi smiles then, something warm yet melancholic shimmering in his eyes. “That’s good.”

“I’ll stay in touch, ok?”

“Really?”

“Yes, just give me more time.”

So he does.

* * *

When you get home, you wash away the stress of the day, hoping to be able to move forward without the past on your mind. Yet, with the steam lingering around and the soothing spray of the scalding water, it seems to be the only thing you can focus on.

With pajamas on, you wait as coffee brews. Despite your overly exhausted appearance, you knew that a good night’s rest wouldn’t come easily, so what was the point of even trying? Caffeine would allow you to stay up and possibly get some extra work done. You could focus elsewhere instead of being left alone with your thoughts.

But then your doorbell rang. It was late. Nearing the end of the day, and you hadn’t been expecting anyone, especially when Yūji didn’t pick up your earlier phone call. Yet, when you walk over to the door and cautiously open it, the guest isn’t a stranger.

“Bokuto?” You unchain the privacy latch and open up the door fully. “What’s wrong?”

His hair is down and covers the golden rays of his eyes slightly. He looks handsome like this; fresh from a shower and comfortable.

“I wanted to check on you. May I come in?” You nod and step out of the way. “Was I too much? I probably was, wasn’t I? I definitely came on too strong!”

You’re the tiniest bit confused. “With Daichi?”

Bokuto nods. “I said some really bold things! I never asked if you were okay with it and you left so quickly afterward. Everyone was concerned. Especially me!!”

He follows you into your home and sits as you do on the couch.

“I promise everything you said was fine. It wasn’t too much, honestly it made me feel safe.”

There’s a heavy sigh of relief. “Good! Good, I’m glad.” Bokuto’s eyes fall to the hand closest to him before taking it in his. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

He slowly lifts your hand to his lips, eyes landing heavily on yours to ensure you were okay with his actions. He presses a kiss against your knuckles, tenderly dragging them across each individual finger and then kissing the inside of your wrist.

You’re doing your best not to be affected by his advancements, but your eyes have become heavy and your mouth is left ajar. It takes everything in your power not to make an embarrassing sound.

“I like you a lot. I get nervous when you smile at me, but giddy when you touch me.” His lips never leave your skin as they trail at a snail-like pace up the inside of your arm. “I love hearing about your day and when you ask me about volleyball. You’re like the first break of sunlight through grey skies.”

“That’s incredibly poetic, Bokuto,” you mutter, eyes tracking his movements. The sharp grin against your skin sends tingles to forbidden areas.

“You never use my first name.” His one free hand drags you closer to him. As close as you’re able to be with your positions on the couch. “You used his today.”

“Whose?”

“Sawamura’s.”

“Are you jeal…”

Your voice trails off because Bokuto is now holding your face so tenderly between his hands and rubbing circles against your cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs. His eyes were half-lidded—nothing like the large owlish gaze you were used to—yet still looking so deeply into yours that your voice was lost.

“Jealous?” He finishes for you, dropping his hands from your cheeks to trail along the column of your throat. “Maybe.”

“Koutarou,” you breathe out and feel his fingertips press into your skin. “Are you trying to confess to me?”

He bites his lip and nods. “I know you said our string is yellow, but maybe we can make it red!”

He sounds too hopeful for you to refute his statement. You won’t stop him from trying. You care about him. You like him so incredibly much, and the joy that he brings is insurmountable.

“Okay,” you say. “We can try.”

Koutarou’s eyes widen and he kisses you deeply before pulling away because he’s too busy giggling giddily. 

Even if it’s a lie. Even if you know it isn’t possible and that you’ve never heard a story about strings changing colors, you feed into the hope.

Unbeknownst to you, the pale pink fibers inside of the yellow string burn brighter.

* * *

**Fun (?) Bonus:**

Yūji finally calls you back and tells you that you’re getting too comfortable.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I know I wasn’t serious the last time you mentioned him, but be careful. He’s a professional volleyball player, and he travels a lot.”

“Are you saying he’ll cheat on me?”

Yūji scoffs, “No. The guy doesn’t have a single bone in his body that’s capable of infidelity.”

You can hear the pitying stress in his voice, and it pisses you off. “I’m saying he has ample opportunity to meet his fated partner.”

“But, Yūji, maybe Kou would want to try to stay with me. He’s incredibly loyal.”

“ _‘Kou’_?” He sounds incredulous. “Y/n, I want you to be happy, but-,”

“Stop. Please.” There is silence on the other side. “If you want me to be happy, then you won’t say anything. At least let me pretend.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“You’re never around anymore anyway, Terushima. What else am I supposed to do?”

You hang up the phone.


	8. He Knows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To hold everyone over while I write Bokuto’s continued story ❤️

Terushima doesn’t understand why you jumped so readily into whatever you had with Bokuto. How you had asked him to cut the strings that bound you to others—an odd, but desperate form of symbolism that he took as you not wanting to be attached to anyone but him.

He now knows that that isn’t true.

Terushima knows their names, and he knows that Oikawa Tooru and Sawamura Daichi had somehow left you feeling in complete disrepair.

_“What a pretty fucking mess you are.”_

When he closes his eyes, he sees pictures of you holding Bokuto’s hand on gossip accounts online and something in his stomach flips unpleasantly. In multiple pictures, he can tell there’s a blush in your cheeks even if he can’t see the change of scarlet in the skin, he knows that it’s there from the many times his flesh has caressed your own.

He knows too well about the warmth that blooms inside of you when you’re happy or shaking with pleasure. And the softness of your palms; thumb dragging sweetly against the back of his knuckles and hand. You like oversized, well loved sweaters to wrap yourself up in after work. He knows one of your favorite parts is to flip the front over his face, startling him with cozy darkness and warm skin. He knows the taste of your lips and the flavor of chapstick that you keep in your pocket. Gooseflesh pebbles across your neck and decolletage when he kisses constellations into your skin.

He knows the reason you call him so often is that you miss him. Because he’s been avoiding hearing how happy you are without him by your side. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to know of all the things Bokuto can give you that he was never able. He’s afraid to pick up your calls; terrified of hearing you say that you no longer need him. But maybe that was the entire point of him coming into your life. Maybe he was there to hold you together until someone more capable came along.

Terushima Yūji _knows_ you. He just can’t handle the thought of someone else knowing more.


	9. Bokuto Cont.

Sunlight trickles in through the blinds shielding the bedroom window and its bright glimmer stirs you awake. Bokuto’s side of the bed is warm, but empty, and there are sounds of a muffled melody coming from the shower.

It’s nice listening to him, and you’re thinking that this is how it’s supposed to be with one’s red string partner. You’ve tried this out for six months now and so far it has been endearing moments and slight bumps in the journey towards something greater.

But there has been something that weighs heavily on your mind now and again.

_“Kou,” you pointed down the sidewalk at a restaurant. “We can go get yakiniku! I’m hungry; I can only imagine your rumbling stomach.”_

_When there wasn’t an answer, you turned to find Bokuto several feet away with a group of what you assumed were fans asking for autographs and pictures._

_It was entertaining, honestly. Whenever this happened, you felt your features relax in fondness. Kou always seemed so excited and settled in his element around people that noticed and appreciated his talent and personality._

_Only, these fans felt different—_ _**Wanted** _ _different._

_The women linked arms, pushing their chest into him and staring up with large, doe eyes. And when he didn’t catch on, or perhaps accepted the advances, it felt like a piece of you sunk into the concrete beneath your feet._

_When it looked as if the photos had been taken and the autographs given, you called out to him._

_“Kou?”_

_Bokuto’s head snapped in your direction and he brightened, like he had just remembered you were waiting for him. He waved to the fans, thanked them for their support, and stretched out his hand for you to take. Things clicked back into place when your fingers laced together and he pressed a kiss to your hair._

_“Sorry for taking so long! Did I hear you say something about yakiniku earlier?”_

_Before you responded, a question came from behind. “Is that your girlfriend?”_

_He turned his head and grinned. “Yeah!”_

_Some looked upset, others seemed shy yet interested._

_“Is she your fated pair?”_

_Koutarou gazed at you and nodded. “She could be.”_

Drops of water fall onto your cheeks and you blink away the memory to see a grinning Bokuto hanging his freshly washed hair over you.

“What are you doing?” You chuckle, playfully pushing his face away. “Dry your hair properly or you’ll catch a cold!”

“Me?” He laughs along with you. “You were staring into the great beyond!”

“There was a light on the other side, I was interested.”

Bokuto runs a towel over his hair lazily. Sometimes if you’re watching television out in the living room, he’ll plop himself down between your legs and lean back into you; silently asking for you to dry it for him. You sit up in bed, swing your legs over the edge, and reach out to him.

His eyes light up, “Are you going to do it for me?” 

When you nod, he falls to his knees, loosely snakes his arms around your waist, and closes his eyes, ready to be taken care of.

It’s somewhat difficult to dry his hair with how he’s holding you. His face is pressed into your stomach and you’re having to finish up before your shirt absorbs the water instead.

“What would you like to do today, hm?”

He ponders for a moment, craning his neck back as you rub the remaining bits of water out.

“I wanna grab breakfast first. Then, we could go to the Riverwalk, maybe rent a couple bikes or some scooters and ride around the city?”

“I like that idea.”

Bokuto is quietly looking at you, eyes scanning over your face as if he’s looking for something. “You’ve been upset for a while now. Anything I can do?”

“Upset?” You thought you’d hid it well. You put the towel aside and pat his forearms. “It isn’t anything I can’t handle. Let’s have a good day, alright?”

His brow furrows while his arms tighten around your waist. “Please? I can’t have a good day when I know my favorite girl is sad!”

With a sigh, you agree.

“It’s Yūji,” Bokuto visibly stiffens. You’ve told him bits and pieces of who Terushima is—he remembered the snarky high school version of him—and what he meant to you. “I think I upset him or that I’ve worried him, but he’s put a lot of our plans on hold. He’s finally started answering my calls again, but I don’t know how to make things better.”

“Have you asked him what’s wrong?” You nod. “And what does he say?”

“He tells me I’m imagining things and that he’s fine. But I know something’s wrong, Kou.”

Bokuto has heard the conversations, so he knows what you mean to a certain extent.

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

That alarms you, and your hands grip his forearms slightly. “No, um, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

He stands up, neck now bent slightly to look down at you. There is a calming softness in his features and you smile. His fingers brush down the side of your cheek, neck, and arm.

“Tell him,” he mutters softly. “He’s your friend and I think he deserves to know about the strings.”

You know he’s right. You’ve kept Yūji in the dark for far too long. Why was it so hard to tell him something that was always so easy to explain to the others?

“Ok, I will.” You nod. “Maybe sometime soon.”

“Good, I love you,” Kou bends back down to kiss your forehead. “Now, let’s get ready for some fresh air!”

* * *

_After Oikawa, you asked more questions._

_Your parents had never told you of the story; their love that always seemed so sturdy and so incredibly sure of itself despite the lack of a red string. How had they defied The Fates? To your knowledge, your mother had never had a red string connected to another. You thought maybe she had never met them or they could have died before their time._

_“Dad?”_

_“Yes, sweetheart?”_

_“How did you and mom stay together without a red string? I’m surprised The Fates never got in the way.”_

_There was a stutter in your father’s movements. The 500 piece puzzle he’d been working on for a week stared back at him half finished. He moved one piece between his fingers while he tried to figure out how to respond._

_Your mother, however, reached over him and pressed a piece in place._

_“They did.”_

_He looked up at her._

_“Huh?” You questioned._

_“They got in the way,” she repeated. Her fingers came up to rest on the back of your dad’s neck, finger pads massaging into the muscles of his neck. “There’s no harm in telling her. She should know she has the option if it ever arises.”_

_Your eyes flickered between them, unsure of what they meant by ‘an option.’ Was there a way to keep someone you loved?_

_“The Fates had me run into my red string partner a year into knowing your father.” Her face still held a gentle smile, not once looking away from your dad’s profile. “They were excited to meet me, but they quickly realized I didn’t feel the same.”_

_“Your mom came to me terrified and crying, asking me not to let her go.” He fit a puzzle piece next to the one she placed. “I didn’t want to, so I didn’t.”_

_You blinked at them, trying to process everything. There was no red string coming from your mom, and you hadn’t a clue what the string looked like between your parents. It couldn’t be red. In all the stories you’ve heard of your family, there has not once been a time when a red string formed._

_“What did you do?”_

_“We cut the string.”_

_“What?”_

_They both looked up, pinning you in place. “We cut the string. There are a pair of scissors that have been passed down through our bloodline for generations. They are only able to cut a red string with explicit consent from both parties at each end of the string.”_

_“You can… cut the red string?”_

_“Any string, sweetheart.”_

_“Alright,” you sighed. “What happens to the people—mom, what happened when it was cut?”_

_She closed her eyes and touched her chest. “I won’t lie to you. There was an emptiness at first, like I had cut away a piece of me, but your father was there to fill up the space.”_

_“And the other person?”_

_They glanced at one another. “We kept tabs on them for a while. We wanted to make sure they found someone to fulfill the happiness we took for ourselves. Thankfully, they did.”_

_The story, though lacking detail, was hard for you to wrap your head around. They had taught you to follow the guidelines of fate; that happiness would only come to you through the help that you provide to others with the gift. Never in the last two decades of your life were you told that there was a possibility of choosing your own happiness._

_“It seems selfish.”_

_“It is,” your dad nodded, “We are.”_

_“It was your father’s burden to bear, and for that I felt doubly worse. He’s the one that sees the strings every single day.” She smoothes her thumb over his eyebrow. “I know he can sometimes catch a phantom glimmer of my cut string.”_

_A recollection of describing your strings as a rainbow came to mind. “Mom, you’ve seen the string colors before, haven’t you?” She confirmed. “How?”_

_Your dad cleared his throat and opened his palm so that she would take it. “Everyone can glimpse at their strings if they focus hard enough, but your mom can see hers when I hold her hand. I’ve been able to share bits of our gift with her.”_

_“Odd.” You looked down at your own hand and wondered why Tooru had never seen yours or his. Perhaps it was only for those truly in love with one another—nothing one sided received the luxury of a rainbow. “The grey strings come and go, is that the same?”_

_“Yes, they will remain invisible, much like a person’s nose, until you try to see or are acutely aware of them.”_

_You hang your head and stare intently at the strings flickering in and out of existence, wondering how you could see them so often as a child, but are now barely able to view them unless they’re connected._

_“And your string?” They’ve already started putting the puzzle pieces together again. “What color do the two of you have?”_

_“It was yellow.”_

_“Was?”_

_Your mother’s smile is nothing short of blinding as your father says, “It turned into a deep pink.”_

* * *

“Y/n!” Kou calls out to you with a teasing lilt in his voice; a sign that he’s about to ask for something he knows will be difficult.

“Yes?” You can’t cut the vegetables in the kitchen loud enough to tune out your anxious heartbeat.

“When can I meet your parents?” Your hands stop moving, and the ground has suddenly shifted into quicksand. “We’ve been together for a year now. I know I travel a lot, but I’d really love to meet my future in-laws!”

“Ah, I must’ve missed you proposing to me.” Bokuto rests his face atop your head and groans. “This is the fifth time in the last month that you’ve asked me, why do you want to meet them so badly?”

Warm hands find bare skin beneath your shirt and settle at your hips. “Because I love you,” he kisses your head, “and maybe I wanna get their permission for something.”

You swiftly put the knife down and turn to face him. His hands out from under your shirt to grip the countertop and box you in. “What?”

Bokuto glides the tip of his nose over yours. “I’d like to ask for permission to marry you.” Panic sets itself aflame inside of you and when you don’t respond, Bokuto panics, too. “N-not that I would force you into anything, or ask you immediately! I just want to get their blessing, um, for the future! Don’t want your parents to think that I’m some stranger coming in to steal their daughter when or if I ask to marry you, haha!”

You hug him tightly, willing him to calm down.

“Okay,” you mutter.

“Huh? ‘ _Okay_ ’ to meeting your parents, or… marriage?”

You pull away from his chest to look up at him, and with one deep inhale you give him an answer. “ _Yes_.”

* * *

A week or more later, Bokuto hears the unease of your heart through sleep-laden words.

The two of you are on the couch watching a movie with your head cushioned by his lap. The movie has something to do with a couple playing at soulmates, only to grow apart as they age in different directions. Bo thinks it’s incredibly depressing and not at all the romantic movie he thought it to be. Thankfully, Bo is distracting himself with rubbing your head; the pad of his thumb dragging across your hairline as he watches your eyelids grow heavier and heavier. Just as you’re about to nod off, he hears your voice say something quietly.

“What am I...” you mumble, “What am I gonna do...”

Bokuto struggles to hear as your words fall off into an inaudible whisper and he has to lean his head down a little closer to hear.

“What are you saying?” He tries to keep his voice just as quiet so as not to startle you awake.

“What am I gonna do,” you repeat once more, slightly stirring awake, “when I lose you too?”

He freezes at your words. He knows that you’re saying this unconsciously, but he wants to lay to rest any qualms you have about losing him. Gently, he calls out to you.

“Baby? Can you wake up? I gotta tell you something _super_ important.”

In your sleep, you turn over to bury your face into the warmth of his stomach. “No,” you grumble.

“Please,” he sounds worried, and that’s what has you cracking an eye open. “Y/n, tell me what’s going on.”

Sitting up, Kou brings you close. One of your legs is crossed under you while the other is draped over his thighs.

“I’m scared,” you tell him.

“Of what?”

“I’m scared of believing that _this_ ,” you gesture between the two of you, “is it, and that I can actually be happy with you for however long you’ll have me.”

“‘However… long?’” He looks horrified by the implication and pulls you into him for his own peace of mind. “Forever, is that long enough?”

“What?”

“I’ll have you _forever_ ,” he emphasizes. “Forever even when we’re old and wrinkly, and then we become ghosts!”

It’s what you want. With your body wrapped up tightly in his, you shut your eyes once more and _hope_ that The Fates will take pity on you. That this gift of a man is just that; a gift for you alone to indulge in

“I’m not perfect, you know.” Fingertips tap out a silent melody on your back muscles. “I try to be a beacon of sunlight for others, but sometimes I feel like the expectations from everything around me are snuffing me out. I forget my best friend’s birthday, I don’t call my family enough, I practice until my body gives out…” Bokuto sighs and leans his cheek against your head. “Sometimes when we have petty arguments, you have this look of contempt… not towards me, but yourself, as if you can’t believe you’ve upset me, and I feel like I have to latch onto you or you’ll disappear.”

You also understand that he’s not perfect, no one is, but it’s hard to look Koutarou in the eyes and not want to write tales of a man so bold and bright he could blind the sun. The melody halts when you place a gentle peck to his neck. The look you’ve worn too many times flashes in your mind, so you know there’s no arguing his words.

“I love you,” you say, “and I’m sorry.”

* * *

A month after meeting your parents, there’s a ring on your finger, and although you know it won’t be a pleasant reaction, you go to see Yūji.

He balks at you and the ring and you force a smile, hoping that he’d feign happiness for your sake. But Yūji was anything but a liar.

“You’re marrying someone that isn’t your fated partner?”

You nod. “Yes, why is that so hard to accept?”

“Are you kidding!? What are the two of you going to do when they come along? Happily file for divorce and say, ‘at least we tried’!?”

He’s angrier than you’ve ever seen him before, but it’s your own fault. You never told him about your strings or the gift, it wasn’t necessary in the beginning, but now you were so deep in your own secret that his anger was volcanic.

“I love him, Yūji--,”

“When has that ever been enough!?” The harsh words startle you and he inhales sharply to calm down. “When has the love you poured into someone ever been enough for them?”

“What?” Your voice was but a whisper, but he heard you loud and clear. You were asking to get hurt, asking for the blade of truth to be slipped right between the ribs.

“You loved Oikawa for years, and you obviously loved Sawamura enough to drown your sorrows in my bed, but what makes this guy so god damn different, huh?”

“Nothing,” you mumble.

“Then tell me why he won’t be the same.” He waits a long minute for you to answer, but you can only stare back at him with watery eyes and a trembling jaw. “Tell me why, y/n!”

“ _I can’t!_ ” You yell back, “I can’t tell you!”

“Why the hell not!?”

“It’s too fucking complicated!”

“I’m your friend, Y/n! You’ve kept me in the dark for well over a year!”

“I will tell you when I’m ready, Yūji, why is that so hard to understand?!”

“It’s fucking inconvenient, that’s why!” He scoffs, “Am I supposed to wait until you’re sobbing in my bed again to get a proper answer!?”

“They have _forced_ me to over share parts of myself since I was a child; years of sacrificing to fix _them_ , to help _them_.” Though your movements are harsh and rough, you stride forward to grab his hand and hold tight while looking him in the eye. “I’m sorry, I know you want to help and I know it isn’t easy to be friends with someone that keeps you in the dark, but this is who I am. I need to have this control, just this little bit. Please, Yūji, know that I’ll explain everything to you when I’m ready.”

Terushima doesn’t speak, he merely looks with a furrowed brow and brooding eyes that appear to be just as misty as yours.

“Despite knowing that I’m not his fated partner, I want to be with him because I love him. I just want a bit of the happiness that everyone else seems to get. If you want nothing to do with me after this--,”

“Shut up,” he chokes. “Stop.” He uses the hand you’re holding to tug you into his chest. “You have boundaries, I get it. I’m still upset that you won’t tell me anything, but I care about you so I can wait until you’re ready. But if that happy-go-lucky bastard ever hurts you, you better come straight to me, got it?”

“Yes sir,” you chuckle, giving a half-hearted salute.

Yūji rubs circles into your back for a couple seconds and says, “I hope he makes you happy.”

* * *

He does.

Bokuto makes you so happy that a few more blissful months roll by and the world might as well be painted in bright brilliant hues of blue, green, and gold. He wakes you up with kisses in the morning and sometimes breakfast too. You have prime seating at all of his home games and even get to accompany him to some far away from home. And despite his once green-eyed gaze whenever you mentioned Yūji, he comfortably and securely offers to invite him over for dinner once in a while. Even going so far as to asking him to keep you company when he’s away with the team.

It’s on a day like that, when he’s been away for an entire week because of training, that the intricately made happiness becomes cotton candy in water.

You’re in the bedroom, hanging up a picture he took of you two in front of a giant Ferris wheel out of the country. It was freezing; your noses were red and your fingers felt numb, but he kept pressing them to his lips and slipping them in his pockets. It was cute, and the image brought warmth to your chest when you gazed at it.

The door opens and closes, but Koutarou does not announce that he’s home, so you go out to greet him.

“Kou, I just put that picture of us up from our trip to…”

When you notice the terror-stricken look on his face, you briefly assume that you’ve startled him, but upon closer, more _focused_ inspection, you know that isn’t the case.

Honestly, it’s like a bad dream. Hoping you’d blink and it would be a trick of the light.

“When?” You whisper.

You watch him swallow heavily. “Yesterday.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shakes his head. “I was afraid if I did, you’d be gone before I got back.”

“It’s blinding,” you observe, not wanting to look at it too long. “Are they nice?”

He avoids the question. “I’m not going anywhere, Y/n.”

Being unreasonable, you scoff and turn to walk away.

“Stop,” he pleads, “don’t shut me out like that.”

“I’m sorry,” you hang your head and turn back to face him. “I just…”

“There’s that face again.”

_Contempt._

“I knew The Fates wouldn’t let me keep you.” You step forward and he opens his arms for you to enter. Icy fingers slide up his biceps and settle on his shoulders. “I love you, but I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I didn’t let you go.”

“We’ll figure something out, baby.” He rests his forehead on yours. “Please, stay.”

It feels like infidelity. Even though Koutarou has done nothing wrong, the fear and guilt on his face makes it _feel_ otherwise. The ring on your finger feels heavy, and with his skin pressed against yours, you close your eyes. You could do it. You could tell him the story of your parents and hope beyond hope that the other person allows you this mercy.

_Guilt is cyclical._

* * *

“What happens if you don’t cut the red string, dad?”

He shakes his head. It’s the first time that he hasn’t been able to give you an answer or roundabout solution to your problems.

“I know only what you do. The Fates will screw with you. They will force you to realize that the one you love is not _just_ yours, and that they cannot stay. _You_ cannot stay.”

“But, you and mom…” your breath hitches and your eyes burn. “Our string was changing. I could see it whenever we slept in the same bed and I felt it when he kissed me.” You closed your eyes and imagined his arms around you while a tear slipped free. “It was turning pink.”

There’s the sound of a chair being moved, the slight rummaging of drawers, and then cold metal is placed in your hand. When you open your eyes, you see an intricate pair of scissors; red trim lines the thin gold metal of the handles whose design resembles that of lace. The blades themselves were thin and sturdy, yet not something you’d envision being able to cut anything thicker than a rouge fabric string.

“These were the scissors that cut your mother’s string.” Your eyes grew wide. “Talk to him, see what he says, and then ask the other person too. Maybe this will end happily.”

“Do I have to do anything?”

“Nothing other than asking permission. Remember, they both need to _want_ the connection severed, otherwise it will fix itself.”

There’s a strong sense of hope in his eyes. A hope that stems from his own successful relationship and spills into his love for you.

“Okay, I’ll talk to him.”

“Good, sweetheart, I know things will work out how they should.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you quietly mull over another question that has been burning in the back of your mind.

“Dad, one more thing.”

* * *

For a few days, things go on normally. You stay and Bokuto’s happy that he’s still able to come home to you. He ignores the string better than you ever could. It hurts to see it connected to god knows where every time you close your eyes and every time you open them. Just like Daichi, it serves as a constant reminder that The Fates deem you as unworthy of anyone that holds your affections.

Despite the pain in your chest, Bokuto tries his best to go on like nothing is wrong, but the day before yesterday he came home with a foreign perfume like an echo on his clothes, and some revolting part of you knows that it was hers. The Fates have already started their game. You felt it in the way he came home and held you close, closer than he does normally, like he was anxious for it. As if the encounter with her had shaken his resolve.

The day was ending, and it was doing so with a question on the horizon: _How long were you willing to prolong the inevitable?_

With the scissors burning a hole in your bag, you pack your things. One by one, picture frames and tokens of affection are tucked away in the suitcase you used to board planes with him. He isn’t home yet, and you’re hoping to get most of it done before he notices anything. You’re holding up his spare MSBY jersey from the clean laundry, wondering if you should take it with you when the front door opens.

His practice bag hits the floor when he sees you and the empty spaces all around the shared home.

“What are you doing?”

He already looks tired and you don’t want to make the exhaustion worse, but your heart is in your throat and your stomach is brewing poison inside of you.

Silently, you fold the jersey and place it on the couch, out and away from your suitcase. “Giving that back to you.”

“No,” his voice is deep and stern. He understands what you mean. “ _No_ , Y/n.”

“Koutarou,” you close your eyes. “Don’t do this.”

But your words do nothing. He’s already at your side, grasping onto you, and he shouts his disapproval. “I won’t let you go!”

Your bottom lip is already trembling, and hot tears blur your vision. “Stop, Kou, this isn’t fair.”

“None of this is!” He’s shaking, and his words tremor with his own oncoming tears. “I will not lose you just because _fate_ said so!”

When you don’t speak, he begs further.

“How can I make you _stay?_ ” Bokuto is crying now and the last bits of your resolve disintegrates with the look in his eyes. “I love you so much, isn’t that enough?”

“It was, Kou,” you nod with a watery smile. “More than enough, but your fated partner will give you so much more than I ever could.”

“No,” his voice cracks and his legs give out. “I don’t give a damn what they can give me. I want _you_. _Please_ , I just want you.”

The weight of him is too much to hold and you quickly find yourselves on the ground. You don’t know what to do anymore. Your shirt muffles his sobs and you’re stifling your own by harshly biting your lip. You stay there and hold him, because it’s the only thing you’re able to do.

“I tried cutting your string,” you explain through hiccuped cries. Bokuto moves slightly to look at you with red, swollen eyes. “He gave me the scissors he used to cut my mom’s. It only works if both of you want the string to be cut.”

“When,” he asks. “When did you try?”

“Every night since you met them.” You sniff and bite anxiously at the skin of your lip. “We would go to bed and I would cut it to see if, if we could find our own happiness together.”

Bokuto looks down at his chest and shakes his head with tears still spilling. “Why did it reconnect?”

You shrug and laugh half-heartedly, “I guess they want to be with you.”

He sits up and pulls you into his lap. Both of you are sniffling and have hiccups that disturb your speech, but you hold one another gently.

“I told her about you.” His words are quiet, like he’s afraid if he speaks about her too loudly she’ll manifest in your home. “She approached me after one of our training days. She’s part of the Volleyball Association, apparently she’s been a fan of mine since high school, but could never see one of my games in person.”

You rub the hair at his nape, trying to soothe him through his memory of meeting her.

“Even though I told her I was engaged, she kept saying that she’d see me again. She was sad about me being in a relationship, but there was a look in her eyes that knew I wouldn’t be able to avoid her.”

“My dad said that The Fates will put her in your path every chance they get until you make the right decision.”

Your words startle him. “The _‘right’_ decision? Y/n, you’re not the wrong one! You’re _my_ decision.”

“And I love you for that, but I don’t think we have a choice anymore.” You kiss him gently for a few seconds, savoring the feeling. “How much longer do we ignore it before the hurt worsens?”

“Can I do anything?” He whispers against your damp lips. “Anything to make the pain go away?”

“Hold me until it’s time for me to go.”

Bokuto tangles himself in you, wraps you up inside his limbs and hides his face in your neck. Tears fall freely as you latch onto him, too afraid to let go sooner than necessary. Your bleary eyes fall on the bag that holds the scissors and you wonder if having them in your possession was part of The Fates’ game, too.

“I love you,” he mutters. “ _I love you_.”

* * *

_“Dad, one more thing.”_

_“What is it?”_

_The scissors gleamed back at you. “What if I cut my string?”_

_“The one connecting you to Bokuto?”_

_“Yes, would I need his permission to cut it?”_

_There was hesitation, and honestly, if you hadn’t wanted to hear it straight from his mouth, the heavy silence would have sufficed._

_“No,” he said with a sigh. “It’s easier to break the other colored strings. Before I met your mother, my friends and strangers alike used to ask me to cut the threads that connected them to many people.”_

_“They saw them?”_

_“Not really, but when you have a strong relationship with someone, good or bad, you know there’s some sort of connecting force involved.”_

_“What will happen when—_ _**if** _ _I cut our string?”_

_The look in his eyes pleaded with you to choose something other than this path. It was obvious. Even if you wanted nothing more than to burrow yourself under his skin, you would do anything in your power to lessen Bokuto’s present or future suffering._

_“It will be easier for him to move on from you.”_


	10. Reconciliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: There is a lot of self-hatred and depression scenarios at the beginning of this chapter. Please be aware.
> 
> Also, there's a typo in the text that occurs at the end of this chap, my bad lol

Sleep does not come easily. It comes only with pills or over exhaustion, and it comes harshly at 6:30 in the morning when you’re supposed to be getting ready for work. You’ve called out too many times in the past two weeks, and if it wasn’t for your parents calling the family doctor and having a doctor’s note sent to your boss, then you would’ve been fired.

Your brain doesn’t stop. It tells you how easy it is for you to hate yourself. The hole of self-hatred is so incredibly deep that you’d rather just rot and die in it.

You don’t really cry anymore. Whatever tears you had were wept with Bokuto as he helped you pack your things. Both of you were still unwilling to part even after the two of you closed your eyes, counted down, and cut the string between you. He didn’t let you do it alone. He wouldn’t let you bear that pitiful burden by yourself, even though it wasn’t what he wanted.

So, instead of crying, you let the anxiety pile until you’re horribly sick to your stomach, bent over a toilet, and dry heaving near the point of throwing up.

 _It’s all incredibly dramatic,_ you think. And you hate yourself even more because of it.

Waking up feels dull and unwelcoming. The sun mocks you with its brightness and warmth, the open blue sky does the same with its inviting vastness threatening to drown you, and the couple outside your window… holding hands and smiling while they walk shoulder to shoulder, laughing at the empty space in your bed.

As you pull shut the curtains, you think how much of an excellent investment the blackout variety had been. It floods the room in darkness, drowning out their imaginary voices, and it finally feels like you can breathe a little easier.

Still, you long for rain.

* * *

Yūji’s calls are incessant and sometimes daunting. You don’t want to pick up the phone in fear of him telling you: _I told you so._ It would be the last nail in your chest; a crushing defeat that would be beyond difficult to come back from. Ignoring him is something he should be readily able to handle, since he did the same to you for much longer.

Yet, that isn’t the case.

There is a loud banging at your front door and a familiar voice calling out to you.

“I know you’re in there, Y/n!” Three more bangs. “I thought we weren’t mad at each other anymore. Why are you ignoring me!?”

After the sixth bang, you make it to the door and crack it open enough for him to see you. “You’ll disturb the entire neighborhood, you idiot.”

“Open the door.”

“I don’t want to.”

Yūji’s eyes track over the small portion of your face he’s able to see. He’s quiet during his assessment, but his scrutinizing eyes suddenly become soft.

“Your eyes are red. You’ve been crying.”

You scoff, “They’re red because I haven’t slept properly. I haven’t cried in a while.”

He leans his forehead between the opening of the door. “Y/n, what’d he do?”

You bite your lip and shake your head.

“You wouldn’t look like this if he did nothing.”

You shake your head again, then slide your hand through the opening to push him out of the way. “Hold on.”

Yūji hears the crack in your small voice, and something twists up in his chest. He waits while you close the door, listening to metal moving and the dropping of a chain. When the door opens, there is a full picture of someone unfamiliar. What he sees isn’t the strong, vibrant you, but a shell of what once was. He has never seen you look so… hollow.

Instinctively, he reaches out, and you graciously pull him into you while the door closes behind him. His arms wrap around your back, eyes wide with shock as you bury yourself in the comfort of him, holding on tightly.

“What happened?” He asks.

“Shh,” you take a deep inhale of his comforting scent. He smells of camellia oil; lemony with hints of jasmine. “Let me stay like this for a second.”

Minutes pass and Yūji threatens to pick you up and throw you on the couch if you don’t talk soon. So, begrudgingly, you grab his hand and guide him further inside, then after making tea you talk.

“Do you remember when you asked me if there was anything you could do to help me?”

“When you got the letter from Oikawa?” You nod. “What about it?”

“I—,”

Hesitation weighs heavily on your chest. You decide to start simple.

“Our fate string is black.” Yūji blinks several times. “I have strings that connect to other people. Oikawa’s was purple, Sawamura’s was brown, and Bokuto’s was yellow. They all represent different things, but that’s up to me to discern. It’s—,”

“Wait,” he interjects, eyes squeezed shut, and brow furrowed in concentration. “You _see_ them?”

“Yes. Your red string is hanging in front of your chest right now, unattached, but next to it there’s a black string connected to me.”

“Black sounds ominous.”

You give a dry chuckle. “It can be.”

Yūji digs his palms into his eyes; grinding the information into his skull. “Start from the beginning.” He reaches out to take your hand into his. “Tell me everything, I’m here to listen.”

There is the loud rumble of thunder right outside the windows, followed by the drumming sound of rainfall.

* * *

A week or more later, you’ve gathered up the courage to leave your home. You go back to work and pretend like nothing happened, and despite the sympathetic look in the eyes of your coworkers, they try to do the same. Though the excuse of sickness hadn’t fooled a soul, thankfully no one mentioned Bokuto or the missing ring on your finger.

At some point, Yūji has even convinced you to go out to eat with someone that isn’t him or your parents. So you call Daichi.

“How have you been?”

His words are cautious, trying not to pry but still fishing for information. The way he drinks his water is a bit too eager for your liking.

“ _Guess_ ,” your grin is sharply weaponized. With it, you are daring him to play dumb. “I’m sure you’ve seen the tabloids and social media gossip.”

“I try not to read into it.”

“ _‘MSBY Black Jackal Number 12, Bokuto Koutarou breaks off engagement with long-time girlfriend!’_ ” Daichi watches as your smile turns into one of sorrowful contempt. “That’s the common headline. My _personal_ favorites are the ones that usually say something about me being a cheating gold-digger. But they aren’t even aware someone new is hanging around him.”

“I know those things aren’t real.” You nod and he pats your hand gently in comfort. “You two looked good together. I thought you actually had the chance to be the happy one. I wanted that for you.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Me too.”

There’s a period during the lunch venture where small talk is exchanged; Daichi talks about his job and the crazy things that he sees during patrol. He smiles when it comes to his family and laughs near tears when he talks about Sugawara, Nishinoya, and Azumane. But his words stutter to a stop when he brings up Yui.

“Don’t stop talking, Daichi.” There’s a slight frown to his lips; a micro-expression that tells you he isn’t sure if you’re just being polite or not. “I want to hear about what it’s like.”

“‘What it’s like’?”

“Yes, what’s it like being with your fated partner? Is it…” you tilt your head, trying to form the proper question. “Is it any different?”

 _Is it any different from what we had?_ Words left unspoken; lodged inside a swollen throat. Yet, you’re still incredibly curious, and perhaps the look in your eyes is damning because Daichi’s features are slowly softening as he gazes at you. 

You want to know. Are the feelings created within a red fate bond any different from what you nurtured with him or Bokuto; is it any more real? You’re afraid of the answer.

“Y/n?” The gentle familiarity pulls you out of your mind. “I think those strings are akin to a compatibility test. The Fates put the most compatible people together and hope for the best. I believe it’s the same with every colored string you’ve had.”

Unable to grasp a softer reality than the one they have fed you since you were a child, you ask a question. “Why have I always felt like a stepping stone to better things, then?”

Daichi shrugs and looks down at the gentle rippling of his water. “Maybe that’s all your family had known. You’ve had other string connections, right? More minor ones that didn’t involve relationships?”

“Yes.”

“Did you feel like a stepping stone in those?”

“Well, no. I felt more like a friend or a consultant.”

“Don’t you think any of those could have been something great? Companions, lovers; they’re all relationships, and you’ve had wonderful memories with all of them. Of course, it hurts to let go and to see others moving on, but aren’t you?”

“Aren’t I what?”

“Moving on? You’ve loved other people since Oikawa, since me.” He takes a long drink of his water. “I don’t want to minimize your hurt. What’s happened with Bokuto because of the fate string is a special heartache I can’t imagine, but before this you could still love, right?”

You nod.

“I can’t speak for anyone else, but I hope you know I loved you.”

“I think love was mutual for most of my relationships,” you chuckle. “Sometimes I do question Oikawa, though.”

Daichi snorts. “He cared about you even if he didn’t always show it the way you wanted him to.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “You’re right.”

On the table, your phone vibrates once, twice, and then a third.


End file.
